


Need

by BellaHarvest



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drama, Fever, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Nudity, Prison, Rape/Non-con References, Rescue, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaHarvest/pseuds/BellaHarvest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Neal has been missing for months, Peter and Elizabeth track him down in a labor camp abroad.  In the privacy of a tropical sanctuary they fight for Neal's life.  But are they too late to save the man they once knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on LJ in seven parts. I reposted here as one story.  
> No spoilers. No direct relation to the canon. Pure chicken soup for the hurt/comfort soul.
> 
> Unbeta'ed. All mistakes are mine. The characters, however, are not. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Many thanks to neontiger55 and elrhiarhodan for bringing me into this fine archive.

Chapter 1 – Rescue

 

“You shouldn’t be here, El.” 

In the backseat of the SUV Peter nervously shifts his hand on his thigh and with it the small hand securely clamped over his.

“I couldn’t let you fly down here by yourself, honey.”  Elizabeth replies, lowering her voice to keep their conversation private from their driver.  She gives him the sweetest smile she can muster amid the nervous turmoil in the pit of her stomach.  She needs to be his rock now.  “I wish you could have told Diana or Jones.  Even Reese.”

Peter just shakes his head.

“They think I’ve lost my mind,” he says quietly.  “Maybe I have.”

Elizabeth’s heart wants to break again in the face of the mounting self-doubt that has been torturing her husband for ten months.

“Peter,” she states with conviction. “If your gut feeling tells you that he is alive, then I believe you.”

Peter gives her a weak, grateful smile.

“Besides,” El continues.  “He’s my—“

She pauses, stumped by her inability to put her feelings into a single word.  _Friend?_   _Concern?  Pain-in-the-rear?_

“He’s my Neal, too.”  She finally says and squeezes her husband’s hand.

Peter looks amused for the first time in days, before the deep lines of worry return.

“This is the last wild goose chase,” he says firmly.  “If this is another dead end, I’m giving up.”

“I know, hon.”

“If Frederick’s intel is wrong …”

“It isn’t.  I have a good feeling about this,” she reassures him.  “Frederick and you go way back.  He wouldn’t throw this at you if he wasn’t sure.  He wouldn’t have gotten his deep undercover agent involved for a wild goose chase, Peter.”

“I hope you’re right.”  He looks out the window at the mountainous landscape.  Something in the distance catches his eye.  A tall fence on a rocky mountaintop.  He peers over his shoulder at the rickety van following their vehicle.  The van he is supposed to load with a bunch of fortunate souls who will escape hell to work on the hacienda of a deep undercover CIA agent.  The van that may soon hold his friend and partner, who disappeared during a routine case ten months ago.

“We’re getting close to the compound,” Peter says.  “Are you sure you’re ready for this, El?  The conditions there might be … bad.”

“I know,” she nods and swallows hard.  “Last night, after we arrived at the hacienda, I talked to one of the workers who made it out.” 

She hadn’t slept much afterward. 

Peter tries to smile, but despair gets the better of him.

“El, if he was here and I didn’t find him in time, I don’t know—“

“Shhh,” she soothes.  “I have a good feeling about this.  Remember, honey, I have a Burke gut too!”

***

Peter’s heart sinks straight to his own Burke gut when he climbs out of the SUV’s back seat.  The driver continues to hold the door open as Peter offers his hand to help his wife out of the vehicle.  He forces himself not to look around.  Not yet.  He can’t will himself to ignore the oppressive heat that hangs in the dusty air.

“Mr. Turner.”  A short, stocky man in a white suit and a Panama hat greets him.  The short man seems momentarily confused about Elizabeth’s presence.  Then he smiles at her.  “Mrs. Turner, I presume.”

“Call me Cindy.”  El replies with a thick southern inflection that is complete news to Peter.  She shakes the short man’s fleshy, sticky hand.

“I’m Señor Alvarez.  Hector,” he replies. “Pardon my look of surprise, we rarely see such beauty up here.”

“What can I say, she’s an adventurer.  Couldn’t convince her to stay at the ranch.” Peter cuts in with an amenable smile as he grabs the other man’s hand.  “Perhaps we should stop flirting with my wife and get down to business, Hector.  Unlike Cindy here, I prefer a cool spot and a glass of good tequila.  I have no intention of staying out here for a moment longer than necessary.”

“Of course,” Hector replies and waves them to follow.  “I have already preselected a few men for your consideration.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Peter says.  “They speak English?”

“Well enough to follow orders,” Alvarez grins.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Turner, I’ve been in business with Señor Ramsey for a long time.  I know his preferences.  I don’t think he was ever disappointed in the personnel he’s purchased from me.  I’m surprised he didn’t take the trip here himself this year.”  Peter doesn’t fail to notice the trace of suspicion in the short man’s scrutiny. 

“What can I say, he trusts me,” he explains.  “Ramsey and I were army buddies before he settled in Panama.  I saved his life.  That kind of history builds a certain understanding between men, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Alvarez concurs. 

Two guards join them as they walk along a narrow path, lined by almost vertical faces of cliff walls.  Peter doesn’t allow his gaze to linger on the dust-covered, worn faces of the shackled men who chip away at the rock face.  A brief glance is enough to determine that none of them are Neal.

“We’re widening the road,” Alvarez explains.  “It’s hard to get heavy equipment to the mines.”

“Who needs equipment if you have a supply of good manual labor, right?”  Peter jokes and is surprised that his voice is capable of sounding so cruel.

Alvarez chuckles.

The narrow path widens into an open courtyard, lined by wooden barracks and a large three-story stuccoed building that must serve as the administration’s quarters.  Armed guards patrol the compound, with more positioned on top of small towers in the corners. 

On the far end of the yard, secured by heavy wooden beams, three mineshaft entrances hint at the cavernous darkness that expands into the mountain. A continuous stream of men in ragged clothing spills from those entrances, carrying or dragging sturdy baskets of rock and ore.  Others load piles of rocks onto truck beds.  Still more work in small groups, shattering large pieces of granite with unwieldy hammers to extract small chunks of precious ore.

At first and second and third glance, there are few conveniences for the prisoners.  Several plastic barrels, sitting in the sun, supply tepid drinking water.  Crowded in the narrow strip of shade along the side of the barracks, wooden benches provide seating off of the gravel ground.  Through the open door of the closest barrack, Peter catches a glimpse of a row of stained mattresses, positioned with little if any space in between.  Peter shudders.

“Over here.” Alvarez urges and draws Peter’s attention back on him.  The short man leads them to the shadier side of the administrative building, where a group of roughly a dozen prisoners is lined up against the wall.  It takes one sweeping glance to determine that Neal isn’t among them.  Peter didn’t realize how hopeful he was until that hope is taken away from him.  He doesn’t show his disappointment.

Peter inspects the young men presented to him, with their open sores and tattered rags and their refusal to make eye contact.  He doesn’t want to think about that he may be holding their lives in his hand.  He can only pick five.  Five and Neal. 

“This is boring,” Elizabeth states with a yawn.  “I want to take a look around.”

“Ma’am, I’m not sure that’s—“ Alvarez trails off because Elizabeth is already wandering across the compound.  He signals two guards to follow her and throws an apologetic glance at Peter.

“She’s difficult to entertain,” Peter reassures the short man.  He throws a long look after his wife, making sure she is safe before turning back to the row of unfortunate creatures behind him.  He takes his time studying them, makes his selection silently as he buys time for El to take a look around. 

There’s a kid, looking barely sixteen and not yet worn down like the rest of them.  He’ll pick him.  Then there’s the blond man with delicate, handsome features, narrow shoulders and a slightly effeminate tilt in his hips.  He’ll take him too because the guy must be going through hell of a different kind here.  The other three are more difficult to choose.  Peter must keep in mind that he is here under the cover of purchasing farm hands.  He quickly picks three of the men who look to be good workers.  He refuses to think of the rest.  And he refuses to choose a sixth person to fill Neal’s spot.

“Darling dear!”  Elizabeth calls across the yard and waves him to come over.  Peter sighs and shoots Alvarez an apologetic look.

“Excuse me for a minute.  When the better half calls, business will have to wait.” Peter gives Alvarez a slug on the shoulder.  “What can I say, I’m a whipped man.”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Turner?”  Hector grins uneasily and follows when Peter strides off to catch up with El. 

Elizabeth slowly continues to make her way to the corner of the compound, occasionally looking over her shoulder at her husband.  Her smile looks tight and fake to nobody but Peter.  When she’s not looking at him, her eyes are fixed on a group of workers loading rocks onto a pickup truck.  Maybe half a dozen more are waiting in line with brimful, sturdy hampers strapped to their backs.

“Hurry up, honey, I want to show you something,” El whines.  Peter scans the group of men once more.  He can’t tell what is drawing his wife’s attention. 

A sudden commotion up ahead draws his.

Someone in the back of the group of waiting men stumbles then goes down hard.  His over-laden basket knocks two more workers off balance when its contents spill over the dusty ground.  Several guards come rushing in, shouting at the prisoners who try to sort out the chaos of shackled limbs between scattered rocks, and half-full baskets that pin their bearers to the ground.  Someone must be asking for the guilty party, because suddenly several arms extend in the direction of the hapless klutz who lost his footing. 

Two guards step around the strewn rocks and grab him by the shirt to yank him to his feet.  With his shoulders still strapped tightly to his hamper they fail to do anything but pull him across the gravel.  Dissatisfied with their progress, one of the guards orders a brief timeout to unbuckle the hamper’s shoulder straps.

Peter can’t pinpoint at what exact moment of the events that follow he realizes that the man on the ground is Neal.  It may be the way his leg twitches when the guard’s boot impacts his midsection or the way his arms come up to shield his face when a thick crop is swung at him.  It’s not until he is dragged off to the side by the chain between his ankles, coughing up dust, that Peter gets a good enough look to be certain. 

Peter has imagined this moment for every day of the last ten months.  The scenarios had changed.  He had imagined simply running into Neal browsing through the used book bins at the Strand book store.  He had envisioned picking up his trail at an exclusive Swiss mountain resort.  He had even pictured bailing Neal out of a small town prison somewhere in Texas.  Peter had imagined this moment to fill him with relief or anger or plain happiness.  He had never expected the paralyzing rage and overwhelming sadness that surges through his every fiber in face of the cruel reality of what Neal’s life has been for months.

Peter can feel Elizabeth flinch under his touch when he puts a hand on her back.  Then her phony smile returns as she slips back into her role of over-indulged wife.

“Everything okay, baby?”  Peter asks rubbing her back.

She turns, her eyes darting between Alvarez and her husband.

“I want him,” El demands.  “Buy him for me, darling.”

Alvarez and Peter exchange confused looks.  Peter’s heart is beating in his throat now.  He is in sheer awe of his wife’s cool-headed act. 

“Honey, we talked about this.”  He plays along.  “We’ll hire you a new pool boy.”

“I. Want. Him.”  Elizabeth pouts.  “It’s my birthday!  I should get what I want.”

Peter exhales from puffed up cheeks and looks expectantly at Alvarez.  The short man is clearly incapable of taking a subtle hint.

“Let’s take a look at him, shall we?” Peter inclines his head in the direction of the man still curled up in the dust some fifteen yards away.  Alvarez looks as startled as before, but hesitantly signals his guards to bring the prisoner over.

“Perhaps we should return to the shade,” Hector suggests and gestures at the shady wall of the administrative building.  “This heat can do strange things to a person’s head.”  He throws a skeptical glance at Elizabeth.  She smiles unconcerned and hooks her arm around Peter’s elbow.

“Yes, honey, let’s go in the shade.” 

As they stroll back to the stuccoed building, Peter resists the urge to look behind him at the man who is roughly hoisted to his shackled, bare feet and marched across the yard.  Elizabeth squeezes his arm, her hands shaking.  They’ve found him.  Getting him out should be the easy part.  They can do this – if Neal doesn’t blow their cover.

The man they come face-to-face with a few minutes later is either an Oscar-worthy actor or a complete stranger in a beaten, haggard shell that bears a vague resemblance to their missing friend.  There is not even the faintest sign of recognition in the prisoner who keeps his eyes trained on the ground.  His shaggy, grimy hair droops deep into his forehead.  The dust covering his face sticks to the fresh scrapes the guards’ treatment has left on his cheekbone and chin.  His nose is bleeding and blood is dripping onto the front of his long-sleeve collarless shirt, the color of which can no longer be determined. 

Peter lets his eyes sweep over the ill-fitting linen garments that hint at the bony frame underneath and that may shield from the sun but not the cold mountaintop nights.  They certainly offer no protection from the guards’ fists and boots.  The shirt is threadbare where the straps of the carrying basket were fastened across his chest and shoulders.  Peter doesn’t want to speculate what the rough leather and heavy loads must have done to the skin underneath.  Neal’s pants, of the same coarse but thin material as the shirt are too loose on his narrow hips and too short to cover the heavy iron shackles that are clamped around his ankles and connected by a linked chain.  Peter’s survey ends at Neal’s bare feet.

He still knows this man’s shoe size.  He can’t be certain that he knows the person in front of him anymore.

Alvarez signals his guards to step back.  He retrieves his nightstick from the back of his belt and prods his prisoner to move forward to line up with the rest of the men along the wall.  Unsupported by the guards, Neal takes a shaky step forward.  His right leg refuses to bear his weight.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat when his consultant crashes to the ground at his feet.  Neal’s hand clutches Peter’s shoe in an attempt to push himself off the gravel.  The tremble in the man’s arm carries straight up Peter’s leg.  The convulsions that rip through Neal’s helpless body when Alvarez’ baton comes down on his back in rapid succession carry straight into Peter’s aching heart.  There is nothing more than a quiet moan coming from Neal.

“Stop it,” Peter shouts.  “You’re getting his filth all over me.”

Peter swallows his disgust with his own inhumanity as he boots Neal away from his leg and shoe.  He doesn’t kick hard but the impact of his foot with the bony frame elicits a restrained yelp from the man in the dust, who rolls and scrambles away from him.  Peter watches Alvarez yank the stumbling man to his feet and shove him against the wall. 

“What’s his name?”  Elizabeth asks and looks as bored as before.  She pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and starts to chew.

“Out there, I don’t know.  In here, he’s called Blue.”  Hector gestures vaguely at his own pair of eyes to explain the reference.

“Blue.  I like that.”  Elizabeth smiles up at Peter.  “You know I have a thing for blue eyes, darling.  Now give Hector here the money so that I can take him home.”

Alvarez nervously shifts on his feet, and scratches the sweaty back of his fleshy neck.  He seems to consider his next words.

“Mr. Turner, I feel I should be honest with you.  Your friend, Señor Ramsey, is a valued business partner of mine.  I don’t feel comfortable offering him substandard merchandize.”

Peter barely resists the urge to punch the short man square in the face.

“Is he a bad worker?”  He asks instead.

“No, he’s perfectly fine.  Very obedient, too.  No backtalk.  And my men tell me that he’s a bit of a dark horse in the Friday night fights.  Made a few of my guards a nice chunk of change on some pretty low odds.”  Hector grins, obviously proud of the operation he is running.

“Then what’s the problem?”  Peter presses on.

“Mr. Turner, in my experience, men like this have an expiration date.  He’s been with us for a long time.  I don’t want to ruin a good reputation by selling Señor Ramsey something that may not be useful for long.”

Peter makes a dismissive gesture.

“Don’t worry, this purchase will be of a purely personal nature.”  He wraps his arm around El’s shoulder and pulls her close. 

“I understand.”  Alvarez smirks.  “As a matter of fact, I remember the Superintendent’s wife quite enjoyed his … company when he arrived here.”

“But not anymore?”  Elizabeth chimes in, sounding decidedly possessive of her prospective new toy.

“Not for a while,” Hector replies.  “I don’t think she appreciates the lived-down look.”

“Ah,” Peter chuckles caustically.  “I don’t think that will be an issue here, won’t it, Cindy?”

Elizabeth beams up at him and he can tell she is desperately holding back a swell of tears.  They must wrap this up before their fragile façades crumble. Alvarez’ next words aren’t helping.

“I hear the boys still make good use of him, if that sort of thing strikes your fancy, Mr. Turner.”  Alvarez wiggles his eyebrows suggestively as he lightly taps his nightstick against the back of Neal’s upper thighs.  There’s a small twitch in Neal’s face and a flash in his downcast eyes that give Peter hope that his friend may still be somewhere in that abused and dispirited body.  He feels his fists tighten at the thought of what it took to elicit any reaction from Neal.

They need to go.  Now.

“No, it doesn’t strike my fancy,” he replies coldly and watches the smirk on Alavarez’ face wither.  “But we’ll take him anyway.”

Peter hooks his curled index finger under Elizabeth’s chin and tips her head up.  He plants a kiss on her mouth.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

***

The ride back to the hacienda is an exercise in self-control.  In the backseat of the SUV, Elizabeth keeps looking out the rear window at the van that is following them.  The van Neal was thrown in along with the five others, their shackles released but their hands tightly secured behind their backs by sturdy zip ties.  The SUV hits another bump in the unpaved road, and Elizabeth can’t help picturing Neal as he is tossed around the unpadded loading bay of the van. 

Peter squeezes her hand.

“Another hour, honey.”

She hasn’t cried yet.  It’s easier to hold back the tears when she doesn’t have to look at Neal.

“He was so … quiet,” she says.  She’s knows it’s the understatement of the century.

“Maybe he was just trying to protect our cover, honey,” Peter tries to reassure her.

“Maybe,” Elizabeth replies softly.  She stares out the window in silence for a long time.  “I think he doesn’t know who we are, Peter.  And after all the horrible things we had to say in there—“

“El,” Peter implores gently.  “Don’t torture yourself.  You were smart and amazing and in control in there.  You found him, you found the right words to say to get him out of there.  That’s all that matters.”

Elizabeth shakes her head.

“Maybe he can’t even remember who he is,” she continues.  “You saw the conditions there.  You heard what he had to live through!  The backbreaking work, the constant manhandling, the cruel punishment at the smallest offense, the fights to entertain the guards, the ra—“

“El!”  Peter stares at here with wide eyes.  He’s not quite ready to process what he witnessed on the prison compound.  “Don’t think about this now.  Please.”

“Okay, honey.”  It’s El’s turn to squeeze her husband’s hand.  “We’ll take one step at a time.”

Peter slumps back against the seat and checks his watch again.

“I just want to hug him,” Elizabeth says.

“You will.”

***

An hour later, after Ramsey has met them with their rental car by the highway, after Neal has been removed from the van, after the cable ties have been cut from his raw wrists, after everyone else has left, Peter and Elizabeth are finally alone with their friend.

Neal stands in the deserted parking lot with his arms at his sides and his eyes on the ground.  From a few feet away Peter watches his friend’s eyes shift nervously.  Neal wants to look around, perhaps to convince himself that he has escaped the devil he knows, perhaps to look at the devils controlling his life now.  He wants to look and doesn’t dare to.

“Neal?”  Elizabeth approaches her friend.  He shows no reaction.

“El,” Peter cautions.  “Don’t expect too much.”

_Don’t expect much._   That’s what Ramsey had quietly said to Peter after taking one sweeping look at Neal.  _Hope for the best, but don’t expect him to survive this. If he does, don’t expect him to be the man you knew.  Don’t expect him to recognize you or look at you or speak to you or tell you when you’re hurting him.  He’s been taught not to.  The hard way._

“I know.”  Elizabeth replies before putting on a warm, caring smile for Neal.  She wraps her arms around the man.  Peter’s heart breaks when he watches Neal go rigid with fear in his wife’s embrace.

_Be firm._   Ramsey had quickly outlined instructions for how to deal with Neal.  _Don’t ask.  Order._   _It’s the only thing he will understand._   _Tell him what’s best for him, because he won’t know for himself.  Force him, if you have to.  Be cruel to yourself to be kind to him._

“Hug her!”  Peter orders.

By the small tilt in his head he can tell Neal is listening, but he is incapable of computing what is being demanded.  Elizabeth doesn’t seem to fare much better and throws a startled look at her husband.  Peter signals her to stay put.

“Put your arms around her,” Peter commands. 

Neal hesitantly obeys.

“Pull her in.  Gently.”

Peter watches Elizabeth be drawn against his friend’s chest.

“Good,” Peter allows himself to offer a hint of praise before his voice hardens again.  “Now rest your head against hers.”

Peter surveys the absurdity of an embrace he’s created.  Neal looks tense, insecure and utterly confused.  But Elizabeth closes her eyes for a moment and absorbs the feel of the man in her arms.

She needed this.

***

Three hours later Peter throws another glance in his rearview mirror at his sleeping consultant.  It was hard to convince El not to climb in the backseat with Neal.  She badly wanted to comfort him.  Peter reasoned with her that Neal wasn’t ready for her kindness, that her closeness was nothing more than a threat to him.  It was at that point that the first of her tears broke free.

Even in the relative safety of the empty backseat, Neal hadn’t been able to settle down.  Too conscious of trying not to move past the boundaries of the beach towel they had laid down to protect the upholstery of the rental car, he sat stiffly, keeping his hands in his lap.  Something about the stillness in Neal’s ever-restless hands upset Peter deeply.  Whenever he felt unobserved, Neal’s wide eyes soaked in every detail of the landscape rushing by outside the window.  Peter convinced himself to take it as a sign of the indestructible Caffrey curiosity.

An hour ago, Neal had finally dozed off, the lulling hum of the car’s engine too powerful a force for the exhausted man to battle.  His head is resting against the side window, the grime and drying blood in his face leaving streaks on the spotless glass.  The plastic Gatorade bottle he had hastily emptied while throwing furtive glances at the couple in the front seats has slipped from his grip and is rolling over the floor in the rear seat foot well.  By Peter’s side, El looks over her shoulder at Neal and then smiles at Peter.  He turns off the A/C and cracks the window.  Their friend is in desperate need of a bath.

“Almost home.”  Peter says after swiping the keycard to the gated community.

He drives past the clubhouse and follows the winding one-way road for two more miles to their vacation rental tucked away in the tropical forest.  He can’t wait for Neal to see the lush surroundings and the manicured garden that encircles their rented villa.  How different it must look from the barren desolateness he has seen for six months.  Perhaps the change in scenery will help.  Perhaps Peter is being overly optimistic.

He pulls into the driveway and shuts off the engine.

“What now?”  Elizabeth asks.

Peter exhales from puffed cheeks.  He throws another long look at his dozing friend.

“We get him inside, get him cleaned up.  See what the damage is, the physical damage, anyway.”  He pauses for a moment.  “And then we’ll take care of him.  And hope for the best.”

 

Chapter 2 – Soap

 

Neal wakes with a start. 

“Easy,” Peter says, his hand on his friend’s shoulder keeping Neal from tipping out the opened car door.  Panic is evident in Neal’s eyes when he realizes that the towel he was ordered to sit on is lying bunched up by his side.  His alarm heightens by another notch when he notices the smudges his face has left on the window.

“Come on, bud, we’re home.”  Peter offers his hand. 

Neal shrinks away.

Peter exchanges a helpless glance with his wife.  He backs off a few feet and straightens his back.

“Get out of the car,” he demands and cringes at the tone of his voice.

Neal frantically tries to smooth out the towel on the seat.

“Leave it.  You’re not in trouble,” Peter says.  “Just get out of the car.”

His limbs trembling with strain after three hours of immobility, Neal climbs out of the vehicle.  He gropes for the doorframe, letting go of the support instantly as if it was scalding hot.

“It’s okay.  You can hold on to the car until you feel you can stand.”  Peter reassures him. 

Neal doesn’t touch the car again.

Peter extends a hand in the direction of the front door.

“Follow me.”

Peter nods at Elizabeth when she holds the front door open for him to enter the house, his cowed charge obediently limping along a few paces behind.  He crosses the airy living room and into the guest suite.  He opens the door to the bathroom and motions Neal to step inside ahead of him.

“Take off your clothes,” he requests.  “All of them.”

Peter backtracks a few steps to pull a stack of towels from behind the glass door of the tall linen cabinet.

“What do you need me to do, hon?”  Elizabeth materializes behind his back. 

He turns to face her, his hand cupping her upper arm.

“El,” he hesitates.  “I know he’s different now, but I don’t think the Neal we know would want you to see him—“

Peter stops because Elizabeth stares straight past his shoulder.  He slowly turns.

In the open bathroom door Neal stands facing them, stark naked, slouching with his shoulders drawn up and his gaze lowered at the pile of dirty clothes at his feet.

“Oh God.”  Elizabeth covers her mouth with her hand.

Peter closes his eyes for a second and swallows hard.  He must compartmentalize.   _Look at the injuries.  Think what needs to be done to make them better.  Don’t think about how they were inflicted._ _Don’t think about what they have done to the man you care about._

“Come on then, El,” he says and desperately tries to inject his voice with confidence.  “I’m going to need your help.”

***

“Are you sure the water isn’t too cold?” Positioned at the head of the claw-foot tub El continues to stroke the crown of Neal’s wet hair.  His head is resting on a folded towel.

Peter checks the spray of the handheld showerhead that douses his partner.

“It’s fine.”

“Then why is he shaking?”

Peter directs the water off to the side for a moment and looks at his wife.  She stares at him from wide-open eyes, her shock at seeing Neal’s battered body still plainly written across her face.

“I think he’s terrified,” Peter says softly and swallows past the lump in his throat.  “Of us.”

She holds his gaze then takes a deep breath.  She blows a soft kiss on the top of Neal’s head before resting her cheek lightly against his temple.

“It’s gonna be fine, Neal,” she whispers into his ear.  “I promise.”

Peter is grateful that she can’t see the dread in their friend’s eyes.  He aims the showerhead at Neal’s chest and sweeps it up and down his naked body once more.  He has taken off as much dirt as a warm stream of water is able to rinse away.  What remains will require soap and some determined scrubbing.  What remains will cause a lot of pain.

“Let’s start with his hair,” he announces with a resolve in his voice that belies his true emotional state.

They nudge Neal to sit up with his head tipped back.  Peter lets the water run through Neal’s hair.  The nervous blue eyes dart over the ceiling.

“Close your eyes to keep the shampoo out,” Peter asks and Neal obeys.

Elizabeth squirts a liberal amount of shampoo into her palm and gently massages the suds into Neal’s scalp.  He flinches whenever her fingertips find a tender spot.  Peter rinses out the brownish gray suds and the specks of dried blood they contain.  They repeat the process twice until Elizabeth is reasonably satisfied that Neal’s hair is clean, however tangled and matted it still may be. 

“We’ll get that head of yours combed.  Give you a nice haircut, a decent shave.” she speaks to Neal as she spreads conditioner throughout his hair.  “It’ll make you feel like a new person.  You’ll see.”

They rinse a final time.  When the stream stops running over his head Neal tentatively opens one eye then the other, blinking drops of water away.

“You’re doing great, baby,” El praises him.  “You can lie back down in a minute.”

“Let’s wash his back while he’s sitting up.”  Peter lets his eyes take in the raw skin on Neal’s shoulders and the layers of fading, partially healed and fresh welts crisscrossing the pale back.  He sweeps his gaze over the protruding shoulder blades and down to the bruising and scratches on Neal’s lower back.  He exchanges a desperate look with El, who nods at him and passes the sponge and soap with shaking hands.

His white-knuckled hands clamped over the edge of the tub, Neal grits his teeth and breathes in short, rapid bursts.  He twitches at every painful contact with his wounds and remains chillingly quiet through all of it.

“I think that’s all that can be done here for now,” Peter says and watches Elizabeth rinse the suds from Neal’s back and shoulders.  “We’ll have to put some antibiotics on later, bandage what we can.”

Elizabeth gently pries Neal’s hands from the edge of the tub and guides his neck back onto the towel positioned at the head end.  Neal is panting heavily, his eyes watery and full of pain.  He looks to be hanging on to consciousness by a thread.  There’s a part of Peter that wishes he could just cut that thread and let Neal slip into oblivion.  The bigger part of Peter wants him to keep fighting.

“Let me take care of his face before you get to his front,” Elizabeth requests.  “He needs the break.  And so do you.”  She looks at Peter’s trembling hands.

He swallows and nods.  Peter surrenders the sponge to El’s waiting hand and climbs to his feet.  He needs to step outside for a moment.

“I’ll be okay,” Elizabeth assures him.  Positioning herself behind Neal at the head of the tub, she cups his chin to hold it in place. Peter can’t understand what his wife is whispering into his consultant’s ear as she gently dabs at the cuts and abrasions in Neal’s face.  He waits in the doorway for another minute before leaving for the living room to sit and tuck his head between his knees.

By the time he finds the strength to return, Elizabeth has cleaned Neal’s face, given him a shave and has moved on to pressing a washcloth to the bleeding knuckles of his right hand.  Peter settles a hand on her shoulder and blows a kiss onto the crown of her head.  He glances at Neal who looks calmer now as he breathes more regularly and looks at the window at the far end of the wall from half-closed eyes.

“Thank you, honey,” Peter says.  “I can handle the rest of this, if you need a break.”

She blinks up at him from tear-filled eyes and reluctantly agrees.  Peter is endlessly grateful that he doesn’t have to ask her to leave.  No matter what Neal’s current state of mind is, he knows that there’s a part left of him that couldn’t bear the thought of having a witness to the acts to come. 

“I’ll turn down his bed, get the supplies ready,” El says absentmindedly.  “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Elizabeth finds a patch of unmarred skin on Neal’s forearm and strokes him gently.

“Just hang on, sweetie,” she soothes.  “It won’t be much longer.  Peter will take good care of you.”

She turns and leaves the room and Peter’s heart jumps with both joy and sadness when he notices the pair of desperate blue eyes that follow his wife out the room.

***

Peter’s jaw is set in grim determination as he cleans the rest of Neal’s body.  He tackles one wound at a time.  Taken by itself, each cut, bruised or scraped inch of skin is insignificant.  A bump against a sharp edge here, a scab from a tumble there.  Combined, the wounds tell stories that Peter yet refuses to hear.  Taken together, the small patches of bruising on Neal’s arms and hips shape into handprints where cruel fingers held him in place.  Strung together, the inches of nicked skin morph into long welts inflicted by a whip swung across Neal’s chest and stomach.  Taken in their entirety, the scabs on his forearms and knees bear testament to the times Neal crawled because he was too weak to walk.

Peter can’t go there yet.  Maybe he will never be able to acknowledge the images that flash in front of his mental eye.  For the moment he can only be concerned with the picture of the man in front of him, who is biting on his lip hard enough to draw blood but who refuses to make a sound beyond that of his panicked breathing.

“Almost done,” Peter says, knowing that his words mean nothing to Neal.  Working quickly and efficiently to finish means something.  Peter squirts fresh soap onto the sponge and thoroughly washes Neal’s privates.  Neal doesn’t bat an eye when he is touched so intimately.  When Peter orders him to turn around and get onto his knees, Neal’s arms are shaking uncontrollably.  He can barely brace himself on the edge of the tub as Peter sponges the dirt out of the abrasions on his upper thighs and buttocks before dipping between them.

“It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”  Peter calms himself as much as his friend.  He lets the shower spray sweep up and down the naked body to flush away remaining suds.  “It’s okay.”

Peter turns off the water and looks at the trembling man kneeling in the empty tub, at the erratic twitch of sinewy muscles in the man’s shoulders and down his back.  He wants to settle a reassuring hand in the small of Neal’s back, like he has done countless times before.  Neal has always been the one who could show his attachment more openly.  Neal was the one who could remain unselfconscious when he enveloped Peter in a brotherly embrace, when they sat close to each other with their noses were buried in a case file.  Peter wishes he could have been more forthright in showing his fondness for his friend.  He wishes he could have found it in himself to comfort Neal better when he needed it.  Now he fears a consoling embrace, even an understanding hand on a shoulder would be lost on Neal.  Perhaps forever.

Peter takes a large, soft bath sheet and drapes it over his friend’s back.

“Are you listening, Neal?”  He asks.  Neal swallows hard and nods.  “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.  I want you to take your time finishing up in here.  There are more towels.  Use as many as you need.  Don’t worry if they get dirty, all right?  There’s a new pair of briefs for you.  Put them on.  There’s a toothbrush for you.  Use it.  Do you hear me?”

He waits for Neal to nod again.

“The bedroom outside this door is yours.  That means the bed is yours.”  Peter feels he needs to clarify.  “When you’re done in here, go lie down.  Elizabeth and I will come and take check on you in a little bit.”

Peter leaves the bathroom door open and doesn’t look back when he crosses the guest room.  He finds El in the living area behind the counter of the open kitchen.  He silently walks up to her and takes her in his arms.  He holds her for a long time and fights the tears that threaten to choke him.

“I know, honey,” El soothes. 

He squeezes her one more time then takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders and releases his embrace.

“That smells good.”  Peter lifts the lid of the pot simmering on the stove. 

“I wanted to make him the lamb he likes, but I don’t know what he’ll be able to stomach,” El smiles tightly.  “So I made some minestrone.  For a start.”

“I’m sure he’ll like it, honey.”  Peter takes her hand and nervously runs his fingers over hers.  “Listen, El, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” she replies with wide eyes.

“You’ll have to let me be the one who hurts him,” Peter says and his voice is shaking.

“Why would you want to hurt him?”  She stares at him.

“I don’t want to, El, but you’ve seen him.  Touching him hurts.”

“You don’t want me to touch him?”  El doesn’t understand.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Peter replies and searches for the right words.  “I’m asking you to let me do the dirty work.  And maybe Neal will hate and fear me for the rest of his life, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him hating and fearing you.”

“Honey, he could never hate you.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Peter hugs her again.  “And let’s hope that by the end of this fucked up game of good-cop-bad-cop _you_ will still want to talk to me.”

***

On the right half of the king-size bed Elizabeth sits sideways with her shoes kicked off.  To her left, close to the edge of the bed, Neal is stretched out on the clean, bright white sheet.  Elizabeth follows every move of her husband’s hands as they methodically spread antibiotic ointment over Neal’s back. 

Looking at Peter’s hands is easier than looking at the body they tend.  With the dirt removed, the reality of Neal’s condition is shockingly evident.  The dark patches on his skin can no longer be blamed on dust and grime.  They are bruises and shadows cast by bones that protrude too harshly and by muscles carved out too sharply.

Neal’s face is turned away from her as his fists clutch the pillow on both sides of his head.  El can see the play of his muscles around his set jaw line, can see that his eyes are screwed shut as he struggles to hold back the moans that want to escape his throat with every touch to a tender spot.  She reaches out to rake her fingertips through his hair, tugs a damp strand behind his ear. 

“He’s not bleeding much,” El says simply because she can’t bear the grim silence in the room.

“No,” Peter replies and doesn’t look up.  “Most of these injuries are minor and not recent.  But they add up.”  He squeezes fresh salve into his hand and spreads it over the large abrasion on the back of Neal’s left thigh.  Elizabeth can see the blush that creeps onto her husband’s face when his hand slides under the briefs to treat the scraped cheek hidden from view.

“Honey, if you want me to take over…” Elizabeth offers. 

Peter only shakes his head.  His hands hovering in mid air, he lets his eyes travel over Neal’s backside again, debating if there’s anything else he can do.  There isn’t.  He taps the prone man’s arm.

“Turn over, please,” he asks quietly.  There is no reaction from Neal.

“Neal, flip!” Peter orders sharply and Elizabeth recoils at his tone.  She hopes that Peter didn’t notice.

Neal releases his death grip on the pillow and slowly turns onto his back.  For a second he doesn’t know what to do with his arms then each of his hands finds a fistful of bedding to cling to. 

Elizabeth scans the body stretched out in front of her.  Neal is thin, his collarbones and ribs pronounced, his stomach hollow between the lower arc of his ribcage and his hipbones.  What little reserves remain are stored in hard, cut muscle, firm pectorals, thighs and abs that are twitching in expectation of the painful touches to come.  Elizabeth’s eyes fall on the dark bruising that stretches down Neal’s left ribcage.  There’s the clear outline of a boot that she refuses to recognize.

Peter’s thoughts must be leading him along similar avenues because his hand settles lightly over that patch of dark skin.

“Do you think they’re broken?”  Elizabeth asks.

Peter looks at her helplessly.

“Only one way to find out,” he says and raises his voice when he addresses Neal.  “Neal, you need to tell me if this hurts … bad.” 

Neal rapidly blinks at the ceiling and holds his breath, steeling himself for the agony that must follow. 

Peter’s fingers probe the bruised ribs.  Neal gasps soundlessly then purses his lips as sheer panic fills his eyes and he twists away from Peter’s touch. 

“Neal, damn it!”  Peter shouts and eases up on the injury.  “You need to talk to me.  I know you have a voice.  Use it.  Say something.  Anything.”

Neal’s chest rises and falls in the rapid, irregular rhythm of his breath.  His lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line in stubborn resolve not to make a sound.  Elizabeth stares at him in wide-eyed dread.  Why is Neal doing this?  Had the punishment for speaking, for breaking an unwritten rule of silence been too terrible for too long?  Or is there still a shred of resistance left in Neal that refuses to give his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing him cry out?

“Neal, I’m not letting up until you tell me it hurts.”  Peter says and his voice and hands are shaking.

“Peter, no!”  Elizabeth begs quietly.

“El, please,” he pleads.  Close to tears, he locks eyes with her for a second then looks down at Neal again. 

“Look at me, Neal!”  Peter demands.  Neal’s fraught eyes shift and find his face but refuse to meet his eyes.  It’s close enough for Peter. 

“Just one word, Neal.  One word and I will stop.”

He doesn’t wait for a sign of acknowledgment.  Peter climbs onto the bed, straddles Neal’s thighs.  He grabs Neal’s wrists to pin them under his knees, disabling the last of his defenses.   He spreads his left hand over the center of Neal’s chest to keep him in place.  Then the fingers of his right hand dig into the heaviest bruising on Neal’s left ribcage. He doesn’t stop until he can feel broken bone grind against broken bone under Neal’s thin skin.

Neal is desperately struggling as tears shoot into his eyes.  He gasps for air, his mouth opening in a silent scream.

“Just one word!”  Peter begs and looks like he’s about to break down.  He repositions his probing fingers.  And presses harder.  “One word and I will stop.  Please, Neal.  Talk to me!”

Neal is a tightly strung bow under the man who pins him to the bed.  He kicks and arches up, throws his head back as he desperately tries to buck off the man on top of him.  And, finally, he screams.

“No!”

It’s a husky, almost voiceless sound. 

It’s all Peter needs to retract his hand, climb off his friend.

And rush to the bathroom to vomit.

***

When Peter returns to the bedroom Elizabeth is still on the bed, leaning over Neal as she tenderly rakes her fingertips into his hairline.  She talks to him quietly.  Peter can’t clearly discern her words but he can piece together her mantra of comfort that reassures Neal that he is safe and loved and that everything will be fine.  Neal doesn’t look at her, but he is listening, if not to her words, then at least to the soothing resonance of her voice.  Perhaps there is a part of him that wants to believe her promises.  Perhaps if she keeps repeating them long enough, Neal will one day be able to accept them as close enough to the truth.

Neal’s breathing has calmed. Both of his hands are covering his broken ribs protectively as small tremors intermittently run through his body.  The very instant Neal becomes aware of Peter’s presence in the room is painfully obvious in the tension that returns to his body.  Peter rubs his hands with alcohol sanitizer and grabs the tube of antibiotic ointment before settling sideways on the edge of the bed.

“For what it’s worth, Neal,” he says softly.  “I won’t give you any bullshit about this hurting me more than you.  But this _does_ hurt me.  Just in a different way. You know.”

Neal doesn’t know.  His nostrils flaring and his breath quickening, he shivers with fear of Peter’s next touch.  Helpless, Peter meets his wife’s tear-filled eyes.  She wants to be strong for him, support him in anything he needs to do, but she can barely hold herself together.  He takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to surveying the injured body in front of him.

“Let’s finish treating what we can.  Make him eat, drink some more.  Then give him something for the pain and hope he’ll sleep.”  He starts at Neal’s feet, spreading ointment over scrapes and cuts.  He keeps his touch light and still winces in sympathy with every twitch he feels. 

“Should I get some bandages ready?”  Elizabeth asks with a nod at the stack of wound dressings by her side. 

“Where do we start?” Peter replies, his voice harder than he intends.  “He’s—a fucking mess.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth says softly.  “We’ll change the sheets as often as we need.  That’s not a problem.”

“I want to cool his knee.  Keep the swelling down.”  Peter carefully probes the scraped limb.  “He was limping pretty badly.  Must have busted it when he tripped on the compound.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth nods. 

Peter continues tending to his friend, methodically covering inch by inch of skin.  On Neal’s chest, Peter passes his fingertips over the marks the leather straps of the heavy hamper have left, the skin worn raw on shoulders and collarbones.

“They worked you hard, kid,” he says quietly.  His hand curls over Neal’s left bicep.  He rubs his palm up and down the taut muscle, as if that small gesture could ease the tension out of Neal’s body.

“Peter?” Elizabeth says.

“Sorry, yes,” Peter snaps out of his thoughts and moves on to treat the wounds in Neal’s face.

“Peter,” Elizabeth repeats calmly, but with a certain urgency that demands Peter’s attention.  He glances up.  Elizabeth looks at him with a hint of surprise in her eyes, and carefully restrained happiness.  She lowers her gaze for an instant, prompting Peter to follow her cue. 

What Elizabeth is eager for him to see is Neal’s right hand that has found hers on the mattress.  His palm is resting on the back of her hand, two of his fingers curled in to slip under hers.  El remains passive in the tender contact.  She doesn’t give his fingers a reaffirming squeeze, doesn’t stroke his raw knuckles.  She does nothing to make Neal aware of his subconscious desire to cling to the least threatening human being he has encountered in over six months.

***

Neal only speaks up one more time that night. 

With Neal’s right knee supported by a pillow, Peter arranges several coolant gel packs around the swelling joint then wraps a towel around the knee. 

“Why don’t you go heat up his supper, hon?” Peter briefly looks up.  “I’ll finish up here.”

“No!”  Neal pleads hoarsely.  His hand clamps down on Elizabeth’s hard enough to make her gasp.

“What did you do?”  She stares at Peter.  She doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but her protective instincts have revved into overdrive.

“Nothing.  I didn’t even touch him,” he replies, sounding dejected rather than defensive.  “I think he just doesn’t want to be left alone with me.”

“Honey,” El shakes her head, her eyes overflowing with pity.  “I don’t think Neal meant to—“

“It’s okay.”  He smiles uneasily.  “I’ll go get his soup.  You stay here with him.”

***

Peter folds the legs of the tray out and places it over Neal’s lap.  Sitting up in bed with his back supported by several pillows, Neal warily eyes the bowl of soup, thick slice of bread and the glass of water set out for him. 

“You’re in control here?” Peter asks his wife, her hand now clutched firmly in Neal’s.

She nods.

Peter walks over to the armchair in the far corner of the guest suite, hoping to put enough distance between himself and the bed to appear less of an immediate threat. 

“It’s all yours.  Go ahead,” El encourages Neal.  She wiggles her hand out of his grasp and lifts his right onto the tray, placing the spoon between his fingers.  “I made it just for you.  You used to like this soup when you came over for lunch to our house.  Remember?”

If Neal remembers, it doesn’t show.  He takes a first cautious spoonful.

For the ten minutes that follow, Peter watches his starving consultant hurriedly shovel spoon after spoon of minestrone into his mouth.  El occasionally rests her hand on his wrist, reminding him to slow down, reassuring him that nobody is going to take his food away.  She has taken control of the bread, tearing off small pieces that Neal immediately snatches off the tray.  Every few bites, she picks up the water glass, urging him to take a drink with his food.  Whenever she has an idle moment she glances over at Peter, glad of Neal’s appetite and heartbroken for his hunger.

“Should we get him some more?”  El asks when Peter picks up the tray with the polished bowl. 

“Not now.”  He shakes his head.  “Let’s see how he deals with this and then we’ll get him on a regular meal schedule tomorrow.”

Peter sets the tray aside and reaches into his pocket.  He pulls out a prescription vial and shakes two of the chalky tablets into his palm.

“Open your mouth, Neal,” he requests.  Neal steadfastly refuses to look at him when he obediently parts his lips and lets Peter push the pills past his teeth.  Peter tips the water glass against Neal’s lips.  “Swallow.”

Neal takes a drink of water.

“Did you take them?”  Peter asks, suspiciously eyeing his friend’s pursed lips. 

Neal nods with a nervous sideways glance.  Shifty, Peter would have called this behavior a few months ago.  Peter noisily exhales through his nose.  He should be happy that there is still enough of a con man in Neal to want to fool him.

“Don’t lie to me, Neal,” he says firmly but without menace.  He gives Neal a second drink of water.  “Swallow the medicine.  It’ll make you feel better.  Trust me.”

Peter is fairly convinced that the painkillers have gone down, but he makes Neal open his mouth to make sure.  He holds Neal’s chin up longer than necessary and unavailingly waits for Neal’s hollow eyes to find his.  Neal persistently avoids any eye contact and Peter reminds himself that he shouldn’t expect miracles.  Continuing to cup his friend’s chin, Peter reaches to brush a tuft of Neal’s wild, damp hair out of his forehead.  He freezes mid-air when Neal shrinks away, expecting a hit.

“Alright, kiddo,” he sighs.  “Try and sleep.  I’m a gonna go, take care of the dishes.”

“I can do that, honey,” Elizabeth offers.

“I got it, El,” he replies.  “Keep him company.  Please?”

***

Twenty minutes later the shades are lowered and the bedside lights dimmed and Peter sits quietly in the corner armchair and observes his best friend and his wife.  Neal is stretched out on his back, a sheet pulled up to his chest.  Next to him on the bed, on top of the covers, Elizabeth has settled down on her side, facing Neal and completely focused on him.  Her left hand has somehow found its way into Neal’s right once more.  The fingers of her other hand alternate between stroking his cheek and raking his hair back.

The strong painkillers have started to work.  Under the thin sheet, Peter can see the tension seep out of Neal’s beaten body, hypnagogic jerks occasionally running through his length.  On the pillow Neal’s face relaxes as his lids want to drift shut.  He fights the overpowering need for sleep, repeatedly forces his eyes to remain open and alert.  It’s a losing battle that Peter watches with fascination and worry.  As the physical pain drains from Neal’s eyes, as the narcotic erodes the paranoid fear, Peter searches for the relief that Neal must feel after months and months of suffering.  Whatever Neal feels at this moment, he is struggling against it with the last bit of his consciousness.  In his final waking seconds Neal’s eyes lock with Peter’s across the room for the first time in ten months.  Peter’s heart sinks at the emptiness in the watery blues.  He suddenly realizes that Neal is so desperately trying to hold on to the hurt because it still makes him feel human.

The shocking truth is paralyzing.  Minutes pass, during which Peter finds himself incapable of moving.  He wasn’t prepared for this.  Not when he left New York, not when they left for Ramsey’s hacienda, not even when they left the compound with Neal tied up in the back of the van.  Why is he the eternal optimist when it comes to Neal?  Why does he so steadfastly believe in the good in a con man who uses every inch of the leash he was given to run circles around him?  And why does he unflaggingly trust in Neal’s ability to bounce back from whatever life throws at him? 

There won’t be a quick rebound.  If there is any return to normalcy for Neal it will be a crawl, not a bounce.  It won’t simply take a shower and a haircut and a silly joke about coffee to make Neal better.  It’ll take all of Peter’s patience and discipline and kindness.  Most of all it will take hope.  Hope that there’s enough of Neal left to save.

Peter tries to take a deep breath.  The air doesn’t want to move past the lump in his throat.  He doesn’t care.  It doesn’t matter how he feels.

“El?” He asks quietly.  There is no reply.

Peter remains in his chair, collecting himself for a few more silent minutes then walks over to Elizabeth’s side of the bed.  She has dozed off, her fingers entwined with Neal’s.  It’s the shred of hope Peter needs tonight.  He drapes a blanket over her and she doesn’t stir when he leans in to kiss her cheek. 

Having walked around the king-size bed Peter hovers over his sleeping friend.  He takes his limp left arm and tucks it under the sheet.  The drugs have dragged Neal into a deep sleep.  Painless oblivion, Peter hopes, a few hours for his drained batteries to charge enough to make it through another day.  Peter doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring or the days after that.  For now, he allows himself to be glad that they’ve made it through today, that he has his partner back, his friend.  If not in spirit, than at least in body. 

For the next hour Peter perches on the edge of the bed and permits himself to be tender.  It’s surprisingly easy with the only witnesses fast asleep in the quiet solitude of this darkened bedroom.  He caresses Neal’s face, tracing the angular lines of his jaw and cheekbones, softly brushing the side of his thumb over the scrapes and bruises that blemish the handsome features.  They will heal.  He strokes Neal’s hair that is almost dry now and feels soft.  El will cut it tomorrow, will make Neal look a little closer to his former self.  A former self that Neal may not remember.  Peter sighs.  With the last daylight faded behind the drawn shades and with weariness weighing heavily on his exhausted mind and body, he presses his lips to his consultant’s bruised temple.

 

 

Chapter 3 - Food

 

“Morning, honey.” 

Peter cracks an eyelid and blinks in the bright sunlight that floods the room.  With the shades rolled up and the drapes pulled aside the large wall of windows opposite the bed offers an unobstructed view of the private pool and patio area in the villa’s backyard.  Unobstructed, save for his wife’s silhouette that looms as a dark shadow against the glaring radiance of the early morning sun.

“Morning,” Peter groans and lifts his head off the pillow.

“You slept on the floor?”  She asks, equally commiserating and reproachful.

Peter pushes the cover aside and sits up, his back protesting the movement as he peels his vertebrae off the floor one by one.

“I put a blanket down,” he shrugs off her concern.  “You know I can sleep almost anywhere, hon.”

“You didn’t want to leave me alone with Neal,” she observes and rakes her fingers through his sleep-mussed hair.  “You were worried.”

“No offense, but Neal’s a little unpredictable at the moment,” Peter sighs and twists his stiff back to look over at Neal’s side of the bed.  “Is he all right?”

“He’s been awake since 5,” Elizabeth explains.  “He’s kept quiet though, just looking around the room, getting his bearings.  I think the drugs knocked him out pretty hard.”

Peter checks his watch.  It’s just after 7.  He climbs to his feet, ineffectively smoothing out the wrinkles in the pants he didn’t bother taking off when he stretched out by the foot of Neal’s bed last night.

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect him to jump out of bed, demanding June’s Italian roast and French pastries,” he mumbles.  He walks up to his friend and surveys the stains his weeping wounds have left on the clean white sheet that covers him.  “How’re you holding up, Neal?”

“We’re not very chatty this morning.”  Elizabeth appears by Peter’s side and rubs the small of his back.  She smiles up at him, her tearful distress from last night replaced with determination and unwavering optimism.  She gives Peter a warm smile that is as good as a two-hour pep talk.  Then she looks down at Neal, who only shows interest in the large pink stain that has seeped into the sheet at his hip.  He anxiously tries to cover it with his hand.  When that proves ineffective at hiding it from view, he pulls on the sheet until he can tuck the stain underneath his body.  As a result, a second, equally large stain moves into prominent display on the center of his chest.  He frantically tucks the sheet in the other direction, his rising panic quickening his breath.

“It’s okay, sweetie.”  Elizabeth’s hands settle on both of Neal’s, holding them in place.  “It’s just a stain.  No one’s mad at you.”

Neal pauses as if to evaluate the truthfulness of El’s words.  His eyes flit over to Peter and he decides to err on the side of caution.  He shakes off Elizabeth’s hands and continues his endeavor to hide all evidence that he sullied the crisp white cotton.  A soft, desolate whimper issues from his throat when his efforts open a wound and cause a fresh stain to blossom over his sternum.

“Neal, stop it!” Peter orders, letting his voice slip into a lower register.  “Listen to hear.  It’s only a stain.”

Neal deflates.

“Arms at your sides,” Peter instructs.

Neal obeys.  There is a hint of hesitation in his movements as if he is debating the wisdom of lowering his arms to a position where they can’t protect him from punishing blows.  Balling his hands into fists he closes his eyes and waits for the first strike to hit.

Peter can only exchange a powerless glance with Elizabeth.  Then he carefully folds back the sheet over Neal’s chest to inspect the damage done.  He pulls a tissue from the nightstand and covers the opened laceration.  Elizabeth holds out the dispenser box, and he changes the tissue twice before the bleeding stops.  He dabs a fresh layer of antibiotic ointment onto the wound.

“That ought to do it,” Peter says with a satisfied nod.  He pulls the sheet entirely off Neal’s body and inspects his condition.  He gently probes some of the scabs and cuts, checking the skin’s temperature.  He doesn’t like the looks and feel of the scrapes on Neal’s left thigh.  They will have to keep an eye on the injury to stave off an infection.  He unwraps the towel around Neal’s right knee and tosses the warmed gel packs off to the side.  The swelling around the joint has gone down.  He’ll stabilize the knee with a brace once Neal will be spending more time on his feet, but for the moment he should be fine. 

“Turn over,” Peter demands, and Neal obediently rolls onto his stomach, a little more relaxed now that punishment for staining the bedding appears to be delayed, perhaps altogether avoided.  Peter ignores the stains where Neal bled onto the fitted sheet.  The stains on his behind where Neal bled into his briefs are more disturbing.  Peter shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“What’s the plan?”  Elizabeth asks softly, making a point to look at him not at their friend.

Peter settles a hand on Neal’s buttock, only to retract it instantly when he feels Neal clench under his touch.

“Sorry,” he mumbles before pulling himself together and addressing his wife. “Um, let’s get him on his feet for a short while.  It’ll keep his energy up.  He needs some fresh underwear, some light clothes, and we should change the sheets.  Get some breakfast into him.  Maybe you can give him a haircut?”

“Sure, honey, that sounds good.”  Elizabeth walks over to the dresser and pulls a new pair of boxers  from one of the drawers.  She tosses them at Peter and leaves for the master suite to retrieve a set of freshly washed sheets.  When she returns, Neal is out of bed and out of his underwear.  El hesitates for a split second then just continues on with her chore of stripping the bedding.

“I’m sorry, El,” Peter apologizes quietly, taking her by the elbow.  “I’ll talk to him about dropping trou in front of you.  As soon as I think he’ll have a better grasp of things.”

“It’s fine.  It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.  Really.”  She smiles fleetingly then looks past Peter at Neal, who is swaying precariously when he tries to thread a foot into a leg hole of the boxers.  “You might want to give him a hand, hon.” 

While Peter helps his partner into his underwear, Elizabeth abandons the job of making the bed and makes another trip to the master bedroom to pick one of Peter’s button-down shirts out of the laundry hamper.  She sniffs the fabric.  It smells worn, but clean, carrying a faint scent of Peter.  Maybe this will help.  Maybe wearing this will move something in Neal’s subconscious, reinstate feelings of safety and trust. It’s a long shot.

Rejoining her husband, she holds his shirt open for Neal.

“Hey, that’s my favorite shirt.” Peter catches himself sounding like a kid asked to share his new toy.

“I know.  It’s very soft and comfy and it’ll be Neal’s for now,” Elizabeth replies matter-of-factly.  “The A/C is running.  He needs to cover up a little.”  She wiggles the shirt, encouraging Neal to slip inside.  Caught in the middle of the argument, Neal remains rooted to his spot.

“We brought a suitcase full of Neal’s clothes,” Peter continues to squabble, if only to hold on to that moment of lighthearted normalcy.  “He used to make fun of this shirt, you know.”

“I know, hon.” Elizabeth nods her agreement.  “I guess this can be a teachable moment for everybody.  You will learn to share and Neal will learn that it helps to own shirts that aren’t cut for the bodies of 15-year-old boys.  To be honest, half the time I wonder how he breathes in those.”

She shakes the shirt once again.

“Alright,” Peter declares defeat.  He looks at his frozen consultant.  “Put on my damn shirt, Caffrey.”

He watches Elizabeth inch the shirt up Neal’s arms and over his shoulders.  Then she closes three of the buttons and folds the cuffs up so that they don’t cover his hands.  She steps back to inspect the result.  The oversized shirt hangs off of Neal’s angular frame, collarbones and ribs showing under the open collar.  Elizabeth smiles regardless.

“Come on, baby,” she chirps and holds out her hand, waiting patiently for Neal to take hold of it.  “Let’s go make breakfast.  Our Peter’s a little grumpy before his morning coffee.”

Leading him by the hand and taking small, slow steps, Elizabeth makes her way out of the guest suite.  Peter watches his friend traipse after her.  He lets his eyes sweep over the bruised and skinny legs under the hem of his shirt.  Peter finds it difficult to believe that the man who limps heavily on shaky legs was carrying baskets of rocks just a day ago.

“Shit, Neal,” he grumbles and picks up the abandoned task of changing the bed sheets.

***

“Good coffee.”

Peter lifts his mug and studies his friend across the breakfast table.  He questions whether Neal will ever properly respond to him or even look him in the eyes again.  In any case, it is not going to happen in the next few minutes because at this moment Neal’s world revolves around nothing but the pile of scrambled eggs El has spooned onto his plate.  The eggs remain untouched, as does the large glass of orange juice, the coffee and the box of cereal that sit on the table in front of him.  His hands resting in his lap, Neal stares at the food, as if the eggs were in immediate danger of dissolving into thin air should he take his eyes off them. 

Elizabeth appears by their side and sets plates of cooked bacon and slices of fresh toast onto the center of the table.  She catches Peter’s bemused expression and follows his line of vision.  She puts on a sympathetic smile for both men.

“It’s very polite of you to wait for me, Neal.” She settles into the chair to his right and across from her husband.  “Now go ahead, take what you want and eat before it gets cold.”

There’s a quick, measuring glance into Peter’s direction, assuring that the wide tabletop provides enough of a safety zone, then Neal’s hand snatches all four slices of toast from the serving plate and deposits them onto his eggs.  A second grasp procures more than half of the sliced bacon.

“So much for good manners,” Peter mutters and is immediately shushed by his wife.

“Now, Neal,” she addresses their friend, her tone teacherly.  “Why don’t you start with a slice or two and I promise to make fresh toast if you’re still hungry after that.”

Not waiting for a response, she extracts two slices of bread from under his protective hands and drops a slice each on her and Peter’s plates. 

“Would you like me to put some butter on your toast?  Some raspberry jam maybe?”

Neal is frozen in a state of near terror, trying to work out what complicated rule he broke by doing exactly as he was asked and taking what he wanted to eat.  Elizabeth sighs and resolves to deal with Neal’s irrational fear by ignoring it for the moment.  She takes Neal’s slices of toast and spreads butter on one and jam on the second before placing them back on his plate.  She takes all but two slices of bacon and returns them to the serving platter.

“Here, finish this first, and then we’ll see, okay?”  She puts a fork into his hand then gets comfortable her chair, scooting closer to the table in the process.  With a quick nod at Peter she starts to eat as if this was any ordinary morning at the Burke breakfast table.

Peter and Elizabeth have made it halfway through their plates and are in the middle of an idle conversation about the weather when Neal finally begins to eat.  Hunched over his food, he eats hastily, alternating between taking bites of toast and bacon and forkfuls of eggs.  He only pauses to drink from his juice whenever Elizabeth pushes the glass in his direction.  He finishes his food before Peter made it through a second cup of coffee.  Neal puts his fork down.

“Did you have enough, sweetie?” Elizabeth asks. 

Neal sits and breathes heavily, as if the simple act of eating took a lot out of him.  Elizabeth throws Peter a questioning look.

“Answer her, Neal.”  Peter requests sternly.

Neal swallows hard.

“Yes,” he eventually says, quietly, with a voice hoarse from lack of use.  There’s a long pause before he rasps a barely audible “Thank you.”

***

Humming to herself, Elizabeth inspects her handiwork one more time.  She flattens another section of Neal’s damp hair between her index and middle fingers and pulls it away from his head to trim the uneven tips.  The clippings join the pieces of hair collecting on the towel draped around Neal’s shoulders and on the tile floor of the kitchen area.  Putting the scissors aside, Elizabeth finger-combs his hair.  Neal sucks in a sharp breath when her nails accidentally scrape over a tender spot on his scalp.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Elizabeth apologizes.  She cups his chin, tilts his face up and plucks a few strands into place on his forehead.  She sighs.  “Well, it’s not your usual expertly coiffed head, but you look very cute, Neal.  Don’t you agree, Peter?”

She smiles over at her husband, who watches them from a distance away, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded over his chest.  He snaps out of his thoughts and takes another sorrowful look at the scrapes and bruises in Neal’s hollow-cheeked face.

“Sure, honey, he looks … cute.”  Peter says absentmindedly.

Elizabeth lifts the towel from Neal’s shoulders and brushes the clippings from his shirt.  He flinches and gasps when she makes contact with raw skin hidden under the thin layer of cotton.

“Sorry,” she repeats and stops her fussing.  Her hand hovers over the crown of Neal’s head, hesitant to settle over another tender spot.  “Would you like something for the pain?”

He shakes his head.

“Sure?”

He nods.

“Okay, then.”  Elizabeth relents and looks at Peter for directions.  “What now?”

Peter blinks a few times, taking in his consultant with his boyish haircut and his anxious eyes that must have memorized every spare inch of tile floor at his feet.

“Now I’ll give Neal the grand tour of the house, and then I think it’s time for a nap.”  He checks his watch.  It’s 9:30 in the morning.  Peter has been ready for a nap since about an hour ago.  “Come on, buddy.”  He steps into Neal’s peripheral field of vision and waves him to get up.

Neal staggers to his feet.

For the ten minutes that follow Peter takes slow, deliberate steps as he ambles through the rented bungalow.  Neal follows on unsteady, bare feet, maintaining a constantly checked balance between keeping a safe distance to Peter and trying not to appear disobedient by falling behind.  To an outsider, his downcast eyes would suggest a disinterest in his surroundings.  To Peter, his consultant’s stolen glances around the sun-drenched space are a clear indication that Neal is processing, mapping and cataloging his environment.  They will have to keep an eye on him, four, whenever he they can.  Neal has been on the run for a large part of his life.  Perhaps those instincts are more deeply engrained than the blind submission beaten into him over the past months.  Stepping through the sliding glass door that leads from the living room into the backyard, Peter scans the eight-foot privacy wall that surrounds their rental and measures it against the frail figure of his friend.  It may as well be the Great Wall.  He has to give Mozzie credit for picking the place.  Peter takes a deep breath.

“Nice pool, huh?”  He doesn’t expect an answer.  Neal only wipes his hands nervously on his thighs and shifts more of his weight onto his good leg.

“You used to swim a lot,” Peter continues.  “I know that because you repeatedly tried to convince me that the bureau should pay for your gym membership.”

Neal draws up his shoulders, shivering slightly in the cool morning air that still hangs in the shaded areas of the sunny patio.

“Maybe in a few days, when you’ve healed a little, you can hop in for a few laps,” Peter continues the casual, one-sided conversation and reminds himself not to get frustrated or discouraged by Neal’s stubborn insistence to look utterly lost.  With a tip of his head he motions Neal to follow him.  “Alright, Caffrey, I believe that lounger over there has your name on it.  How does some shut-eye by the pool sound?”

Peter resigns to the fact that most of his questions for Neal will be purely rhetorical for the near future.  He strolls over to the group of padded chaises and pulls one of them further into the shade under the branches of a tree Peter can’t name.  He lays a beach towel over the cushion and lowers the head section of the lounger to a semi-recumbent position.

“Hop on,” he prompts.  “I’ll go grab my wife and a book and we’ll join you in a minute.”

Peter sticks around long enough to watch Neal climb stiffly onto the lounger and settle back.  Peter rubs his face with both hands.  Elizabeth bumps his shoulder gently when she appears by his side wearing a summery dress and carrying a tray full of fresh lemonade.

“How is he doing?”  She asks.

“Trying to set a new record for looking least comfortable in a poolside lounger.”

“Give him time, honey,” she replies.

“I will.”

***

The rest of the day is uneventful and as routine as the unusual situation allows.  Neal sleeps through most of it.  His legs covered by a light blanket he dozes with his mouth slightly open and his face finally relaxed.  Elizabeth sits in the lounger by his side, reading magazines.  Mostly she watches Neal and the calm, regular rise and fall of his chest.  She occasionally glances to her other side at Peter, who is catching up on the sleep he missed on the hard floor the previous night.

They reluctantly wake Neal for lunch and again for an early dinner.  He doesn’t eat much.  Elizabeth is worried, but she doesn’t want to stoke Neal’s insecurity by making a big deal of it. 

After dinner Peter takes Neal to the shower.  He lathers Neal’s back but leaves the rest of the washing to Neal, only giving instructions when he feels it necessary.

By eight, Neal is in bed.  Peter applies fresh antibiotics to his back.  He concentrates on his work, listening to Neal’s ragged breathing and to the sound of El clearing away the dishes in the kitchen.  He doesn’t like the looks of the deeply gouged skin along Neal’s left hip and thigh.  The surface is hot, and Neal moans into his pillow at the lightest touch.  Peter throws another judging look at the bedroom door and hopes that Elizabeth will keep herself busy in the kitchen for a few more minutes.

“Lift your hips a little, Neal,” he requests.  Neal hesitates but obeys, his body tense when Peter tugs his underwear down his thighs and then completely off.  He inspects the scrapes on the left side of Neal’s pale bottom.  His friend must have been stark naked when he was dragged over the dirty, rough ground.  Neal is quivering under his touch when he coats the heated skin with a liberal amount of ointment. 

“I’m sorry, buddy, I need to do this.”  He squeezes out a large glob of antibiotic onto his fingertips and takes a deep breath before dipping between Neal’s cheeks to treat the bruised and sore skin there.  He expects Neal to clench or jump or at least grunt in protest.  But when Peter’s fingertip barely breaches, Neal simply shuts down.

“I’m not one of them, Neal,” Peter says from between gritted teeth and struggles with the tears of rage and endless pity that threaten to flood his eyes.  “Do you hear me?”

Whatever or whomever Neal hears and sees as he lies there with half-closed, glazed-over eyes and trembling lips, it’s not his friend.

***

“Are you going to sleep in here again?”  Peter asks in a low voice from his position in the corner armchair.

“I think I should.”  Elizabeth replies.  She sits on the bed, leaning against the pillow at her back, with a book in her lap that is difficult to read in the dimmed light of the bedside table lamp.  On the pillow next to her, Neal is asleep.  He has turned onto his side, facing her, his forehead almost touching her hip.  His fist has found a handful of her summer dress.  With the hand that is not holding her book, Elizabeth adjusts the sheet that covers his naked body, before she continues to stroke his hair.

“Today went well, don’t you think?” El says.  “He was very calm.  Maybe this won’t be as bad as we feared.  A few more days of rest and he might start to get back to normal.”

Peter doesn’t reply immediately.  He doesn’t share his wife’s tender optimism.  Whatever was done to Neal goes deeper than they may be able to comprehend.  It certainly goes deeper than Neal will lead them to believe.  Neal’s honesty can rarely be trusted when he’s at his best.  Frightened and hurt, his defensive walls may be impenetrable. 

“Maybe,” he finally says.  “To be honest, I’m not even sure he’s fully here yet, honey.  For all we know he may still believe that this rescue is nothing but a hopeful dream.  Look at him, El.  He clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear any moment.”

El looks down at the fingers bunched around the fabric of her dress.

“Then we won’t disappear.”  She says with determination.

Peter chuckles weakly.

“I think Neal wouldn’t mind seeing me out of the picture, hon. He’s still terrified.”

“Then he’ll have to learn that too, Peter,” Elizabeth replies sternly.  “We may have to force him for his own good, but by the end of this he will trust you again.”

“The end of this?” Peter sighs.

***

Elizabeth wakes to the insistent shake of her shoulder.

“Honey,” Peter’s voice urges. 

She blinks up at him, and even through her sleepy haze she can immediately tell that there is something amiss.

“Neal’s gone.”  Peter says.

Elizabeth’s head whips around to the empty spot on the bed next to her then over to the open bathroom door.

“I already checked all over the house,” Peter explains.  “The door to the patio was open and one of the chairs has been pulled up to the wall.”

“You think he jumped the wall?”  Elizabeth is out of bed in a flash.  “When?”  Her eyes dart to the radio clock on the nightstand.  It’s only 6:30. 

“The last time I checked on the two of you was shortly after midnight.  I knew I should have slept in here again.”  Peter rubs his forehead.

“Honey, yesterday he could barely walk from here to the living room.  He can’t be far.”  She looks over to the discarded shirt and underwear Neal was wearing the previous day. 

“He pulled some clothes from the dresser.”  Peter nods at the open drawer.  He inhales deeply, his mind racing through a number of possible scenarios.  “Listen, El, I need you to get in the car and drive trough the neighborhood.  The open patio door and the chair might be a smokescreen.  He could have just walked out the front door.  If Neal is stumbling around looking like he does, he’ll give some unsuspecting vacationers a good scare.  I’d rather not draw the police’s or anyone else’s attention.”

“You’ll go after him over the fence?”

“Yeah.”  Peter nods.

“Peter, there’s miles and miles of jungle out there.”

“I know. Let’s hope my Eagle Scout tracking skills are still sharp.” He sighs, and throws another glance at the opened dresser.  “At least it’s safe to assume that Neal’s wardrobe doesn’t include camouflage.  He should be easy enough to spot.”

 

Chapter 4 – Water

 

It is past noon and Peter is desperate.  He pockets his cell phone after his latest check-in with Elizabeth.  No luck on her end either.  Neal has been out here for ten hours.  The last time Peter was frantically searching for his friend, ten hours turned into ten days, then into ten weeks and eventually into ten months.  If Neal is lost out here, he doesn’t have ten days.  He may not have another ten hours.

“Come on, Burke.  Find him.  It’s what you do,” Peter grunts as he steps over roots and shoulders past brushes on his arduous, disoriented march through the jungle.  The thunder that rumbles overhead bodes more misery.  He doesn’t have to wait long.  The sound of the rainsquall hitting the canopy of leaves above is deafening.  Peter is soaked seconds later.

“Neal!”  He yells against the wall of rain.  “Caffrey!”  He stops and listens, for what exactly, he isn’t sure.  Peter stomps ahead through the heavy underbrush, the water sloshing under his soles then between his toes.  He pauses every few steps to look around, scanning his surroundings for any sign of his friend.  What he thought was a trail to follow, was lost hours ago.  He is walking on instinct alone, trying to think like Neal, perhaps trying to think like a frightened animal.

Peter doesn’t know if it’s a particularly cold patch of rain that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand on edge all of a sudden.  He freezes then spins slowly on his heel.  He squints against the rain, surveying every detail in his field of vision, trying to pinpoint what caught the Burke gut’s attention. 

He almost misses it, the small patch of pink and white over to the right.

Peter runs.  At least his slipping and sliding stumble passes for a run in the privacy of the rainforest.  He skids to a halt in front of his friend.

Hugging his good knee to his chest, Neal sits, dwarfed by the massive tree trunk he rests his shoulder and temple against.  His black pants and white dress shirt are saturated with water, the fabric is hugging his body.  The heavy raindrops pelt Neal’s back and shoulders, the pink and purple and scabbed skin showing through the translucent cotton.

“Hey, Neal.”  Peter’s voice is soft and full of relief.  “If you were looking for the fridge, it’s about 6 miles that way.”

Peter points over his shoulder.  The gesture and the joke are lost on Neal.  He doesn’t look up.  Instead, he shrinks further into himself.  He lifts his hands, interlaces his fingers at the back of his head, shielding it from the man towering above him.

Shaking his head, Peter steps closer, then lowers himself to a knee directly in front of the cowered man.  Up close he can see Neal shiver despite the balmy temperatures and the warm rain. Peter reaches for his friend, but then he decides against touching him.

“Hey,” he says softly.  “Look at me, Neal.”

There is no visible reaction.

“Lower your hands and look at me, Neal,” Peter repeats.  “That’s an order.”

Neal’s hands tremble when he hesitantly drops them to his side.

“Good,” Peter praises.  “Now look at me.”

Very slowly Neal raises his face into the heavy rain, his hair matted against his forehead.  He blinks the raindrops from his lashes and looks at Peter’s chin. 

“Look me in the eye, Neal,” Peter insists, keeping his tone warm and reassuring.  “Just for a moment, all right?”

He patiently waits as Neal takes a few breaths.  Then Neal lifts his eyes, the bloodshot, glossy blues locking with Peter’s.  Peter wants to hold on to this instant, wants to freeze time to study everything concealed in his friend’s fearful eyes.  He knows he has seconds, at best, to get any kind of message through.

“I will never, ever hit you, Neal,” he speaks slowly and clearly.  “Do you hear me?”

For an instant, there’s a flicker of recognition in Neal’s eyes or perhaps only in Peter’s head.  For that split second Peter envisions Neal reaching out for him to sling his arms around his neck.  He can almost feel his friend’s body in his embrace, thin and hard and shaking.  But then the image is gone as quickly as it appeared, and Neal’s gaze is blank and distant again as he lowers his eyes to the soggy forest floor.

Peter settles his hand on the crown of Neal’s drenched head and ignores the sad truth that Neal still recoils from his touch.  He brushes his thumb then his palm over Neal’s forehead. 

“You’re burning up.”  He feels Neal’s cheeks and lets go off him.  “We need to get you home and dry.”

Peter pulls out his cell phone and pulls up the GPS map.  They are only half a mile from the nearest road if they head straight West.  He takes a screenshot and sends it to El’s phone before calling her number.  She answers at the first ring.

“I found him, honey,” Peter announces.  “I need you to meet us at the cul-de-sac. I sent you a map of it.  We’re not far but I don’t know how long it will take us.”

“Is he okay?”  She asks.

“He’s soaked and he’s running a fever, but he’s in one piece.”

“Okay, hon, I’ll crank up the heat in the car and I’ll see you shortly.”

Peter stows his phone and sweeps his eyes over his miserable partner, ending at his bare feet.

“My deductive reasoning tells me that you’re sitting here because you couldn’t walk any further,” he remarks and doesn’t expect an answer.  “Let’s get you on your feet and we’ll take if from there.  Come on, pull yourself up.”

Peter offers his arm and shoulder but Neal opts for the tree instead.  Biting back the pain, Neal claws his way up the tree trunk and onto unsteady legs.  He leans heavily against the tree.

“Yeah, you’re not walking anywhere, buddy.”

Without further ado, Peter lifts Neal’s right arm and stoops down, threading his forearm between Neal’s legs and hooking it around Neal’s right thigh.  With a strained puff of air, he shoulders his charge into a fireman’s carry.  He expected Neal to feel heavier than he does.

“Alright, giddy up, partner.”  Peter huffs.  “We’ll have you out of her in a jiffy.”

***

Elizabeth takes command of the situation the moment she sees her husband and his load stagger out of the dense forest and onto the paved road.  She opens the passenger door wide then heads a few steps down the road to meet Peter.

“Are you okay?”  She asks, looking Peter up and down.  Sweat mingles with rain and is dripping from his chin.

Too exhausted to speak, Peter nods and closes the remaining distance to the car.  Elizabeth walks by his side and uncertainly touches Neal, who regards his lopsided, swaying world from half closed eyes.

“Hi, Neal.  You gave us quite the scare.” 

“Is he conscious?”  Peter asks when he comes to a halt by the open car door.

Elizabeth nods.

“Neal,” She addresses his cargo, speaking firmly.  “Peter is going to put you down.  I need you to help him by standing on your own two feet for a moment.  Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

Neal blinks tiredly and she takes that as a yes. 

“Okay, Peter,” she prompts. 

Gritting his teeth, Peter mobilizes the last of his strength to bend his knees and lean sideways until Neal’s toes touch the ground.  There is little if any support coming from Neal.

“Neal, you have to bear your own weight,” Elizabeth insists.  “Will you try for me, please?”

He nods now.

Peter joggles Neal off his shoulder, holding onto him until he has found a tentative balance.

“Good job, boys,” Elizabeth praises.  She takes Neal by the arm and guides him into position to slide into the front seat.  “Get in the car, sweetie.  We’ll take you back now.”

Neal shudders and gapes up at her. 

“Back … there?” he wheezes.  The feverish shock in his eyes breaks Elizabeth’s heart.

“No, baby.  No,” she soothes.  “Back to the house.  With us.”

***

“I’ve got him,” Elizabeth says.  “Change into some dry clothes, honey, you’re soaked. One patient is all I can handle.”

Standing in the middle of the guest bedroom, she undoes the buttons that hold the front of Neal’s shirt together.  She peels the sticky fabric back over Neal’s shoulders. 

“Sure?”  Peter asks and considers the unsteady figure of his consultant, who looks to be teetering on the verge of tipping over when Elizabeth inches the wet shirt down his arms.

“Yes, we’re in control here,” Elizabeth smiles and tosses the shirt aside.  She moves on to unbutton Neal’s trousers.

“Fine,” Peter sighs.  He would have found everything about this image disturbing a year, even a week ago.  Now, the only thing that gets his blood boiling is the sight of the dress pants’ waistband that sags on his partner’s bony hips.  He points at the open door to the guest bathroom.  “I’ll get the bathwater running.  We need to wash the jungle off of him and get him warm.”

“Yes, honey.  I know.”  She nods eagerly and unzips Neal’s trousers.  They pool at his feet an instant later.  “I’m on it.  Go change, Peter.”

By the time Peter has toweled off and changed into a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, Neal is halfway submerged in the rising bath water.  His head is tilted back on the edge of the tub and his eyes are closed as Elizabeth tenderly wipes his face with the corner of a washcloth. 

“How is he?” Peter asks from the door.

“Exhausted.”  Elizabeth briefly looks up.  “Feverish. I think his side is infected.”

“Yeah, I was worried that was going to happen.  It didn’t look good last night.”  Peter sits down on the edge of the tub.  He notices Neal’s eyelids fluttering, his body stiffening.  He’d be a fool to think that Neal ever fully let his guard down in his company, but to see him wary to an extreme at the very inkling of his presence in the room hurts more than Peter would have anticipated.  Before long, they are going to have to address the issue head on, but not today.  He watches his wife’s tender ministrations for a short while and turns the faucet off when the water level has climbed up Neal’s chest.

“Can you handle things in here, hon?”  Peter asks.

“We’re fine,” Elizabeth confirms and combs her fingers through Neal’s hair. 

“Good.  I’ll get things set up in the bedroom.”  He gets to his feet surveys his consultant’s naked body through the distorting lens of the clear water.  “Just let him soak a few more minutes until he’s warmed through.  Don’t worry about washing him if you’re uncomfortable with it.  I’ll take care of everything later.”

***

“Sit down, Neal,” Peter requests.

Holding the towel around his waist closed, Neal looks down on the bed in front of him and then at the arsenal of medical supplies Peter has laid out on the bedside table.  Brushing past Peter, his eyes find the sliding glass door that leads out onto the patio.

“It’s locked,” Peter points out.  “There’s no more running away.  Now sit down.”

Neal awkwardly hobbles the remaining two steps and then lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. 

“Good,” Peter tips his head.  He grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the table and shakes it up to suspend the pain and fever meds he mixed into it.  “Drink this.” 

The bottle shakes in Neal’s hand when he raises it to his lips and takes a sip.

“Use both hands, Neal.”  Peter instructs.  “You have to finish the entire bottle.  You have a fever, you need to stay hydrated.  Do you understand what that means?”

Neal nods and lets go of the towel to support the plastic bottle.  He coughs when he swallows too hastily.

“Slow down.”  Peter sighs. 

He may as well be lecturing himself.  He needs to take this one step at a time, even if they take two steps back for every step forward.  He waits patiently for Neal to finish the sports drink then reclaims the empty bottle.  “Stretch out, Neal.”  He pushes the blankets aside and Neal swings his legs onto the bed and sinks down onto the pillow.  The muscles on his chest and stomach are twitching with the strain of the simple act.

“First things first,” Peter says and reaches into the nightstand drawer.  “You remember her?”  He holds up the tracking anklet.  Neal sighs affectedly and turns his face away.  It’s the closest thing to a sense of humor Neal has displayed since his rescue.

“Just like old times, huh?”  Peter grins.  He turns to the foot of the bed to put the tracker on and his grin fads.  Two steps back for every step forward, he reminds himself at the sight of the raw and bruised skin the shackles have left on Neal’s ankles.  Peter returns to the nightstand and picks up a roll of gauze.  He sits down at the edge of the bed and lifts Neal’s left calf onto his thigh.  He gently wraps the chafed skin with a thick layer of gauze.

“That’s sweet of you, honey,” Elizabeth materializes by his side and plants a quick kiss on the crown of his head, before placing the icepacks and towels she is carrying on the bed.

“Well, contrary to popular belief,” Peter replies with a pointed look at his patient, “I’m no monster.”  He checks the bandaged ankle then snaps the tracker closed over it.  The faithful green diodes flash to life.  Peter gives the leg in his lap a quick pat then lowers the limb back onto the bed.  He turns his attention to the other leg and wonders just how much damage Neal has done to his banged-up knee on his headless slog through the woods.  The joint feels warm and swollen again.  Peter slides a towel under the knee and layers the icepacks El brought around it.

“Okay.  Let’s roll him onto his right, see what can be done for his infected scrapes.” 

They turn Neal onto his side, facing away from the edge of the bed.  Elizabeth collects the pillows from the unoccupied half of the bed and places one at Neal’s back to stabilize him.  She slides the other between his chest and arm.  He hugs it to his front.

“How’re you doing, sweetie?” Elizabeth sits down at the head of the bed and runs her fingertips along his hairline before resting her hand on his shoulder.

“’kay,” he breathes.

“Peter is just going to take care of your side and then you can go to sleep.”  Neal nods into his pillow and Elizabeth nods at Peter.

Peter peels back the towel around Neal’s waist to expose the wounds on his flank and thigh, sucking in a sharp breath in synchrony with Neal.  He touches the hot and tender tissue and Neal flinches at the slightest contact.  Peter packs a few towels around the area to protect the bedding.

“Hand me the peroxide, please?”  He asks El, who unscrews the bottle and passes it on.

“This is probably going to hurt quite a bit,” Peter says with a concerned look at Neal and his wife.  “Try and keep still, Neal.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter pours a liberal amount of disinfectant onto the first patch of the infected area, catching the excess with a towel.  The liquid fizzes where it meets the open wound.  Neal tenses instantly.  There’s a choked outcry that he stifles by biting into the pillow he presses harder against his chest.

“Sorry, buddy,” Peter says and pours more peroxide onto his friend’s hipbone.

“You’re doing great,” Elizabeth reassures him and soothingly strokes the tight muscles on Neal’s upper arm. 

The agonizing process continues for the next few minutes.  By the time Peter dries the scraped skin with a thick pad of cotton Neal is shaking convulsively.  His ragged breathing sounds like sobbing, but Peter can’t be sure with his friend’s face buried in the pillow.  Peter spreads a layer of ointment onto the sores then covers the wounds with sheets of adhesive dressings. 

“Almost done here.”  He wipes beads of sweat from his brow with his forearm.  “I’ll give him a shot of antibiotics, I don’t think the topical is going to be enough to clear this up.”

Elizabeth opens the box of premeasured injections and removes one of the syringes.

“These?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods.  He takes the shot and the wad of cotton Elizabeth soaks in rubbing alcohol.  Peter tosses the towels stacked around Neal’s midsection aside and passes a hand over the smooth and pale skin of Neal’s unbandaged buttock, feeling for muscle to inject into.  He feels the tissue tighten under his touch.  “Relax, Neal, this will hurt if you clench.” 

He quickly rubs the spot he picked with the alcohol swab and silently counts to three as he wills the needle in his trembling hands to still.  There’s a small gasp from Neal when the shot goes in, but Peter suspects that on the scale of everything his friend went through in the past six months, the pain must be miniscule.  He slowly depresses the plunger, retracts the needle and swabs the area again.  Discarding the syringe, Peter surveys the quivering man on the bed.

“You did really good, Neal,” he says and wants to lay a comforting hand on him.  He doesn’t know where.  Peter scratches the back of his own neck instead.  “Do you want to keep lying on your side?”

Still short of breath and tense, Neal nods into his pillow and pulls up his good knee to curl up further.

Peter pulls the sheet over him and a light blanket on top of the sheet.  Elizabeth remains perched at the head of the bed and has taken to gently caress Neal’s hair and face again, only stopping to dab off some of the perspiration that has collected there.

“I’m going to stay with him for a while,” she says.  “Don’t worry about putting stuff away.  I’ll do it after he’s asleep.”

Peter nods and finally allows himself to feel utterly drained for the first time today. 

“He’s had his meds, he should be out fairly soon,” he says and checks his watch.  It’s only 3.  “Let’s give him a few hours of rest, see if we can get some food into him later.  We probably shouldn’t leave him alone tonight.  I’m worried about his fever.  I’m—“

“You’re exhausted, Peter,” Elizabeth cuts him off.  “Why don’t you go relax by the pool?  I’ll bring you some lemonade, maybe rub your shoulders?”

Peter’s mouth curls into a tired smile.

“You’re too good for us, hon,” he says and wonders when ‘me’ had become ‘us’.

***

“He didn’t mean to, Peter,” Elizabeth says.  “Don’t be upset with him, please.”

“I’m not.”  He replies and gently presses the towel against her bleeding nose.  “After the table lamp and the water glass, I should have known better than to leave anything breakable within arm’s reach of him.”

Physically, Peter is dead-tired.  He hasn’t slept in the past two days because taking care of Neal has become a full-time job for two people.  Between replacing the sweat-soaked sheets twice a day, between cleaning Neal’s wounds and changing the dressings, between the shots of antibiotics and the endless attempts to restore the fluids Neal is losing by the minute, Peter can’t find the time and peace of mind to rest. 

Sitting in the chair in front of him, Elizabeth looks about as fatigued as he feels.  She has been his rock these past two days.  Their rock.  Her patience with Neal is inexhaustible.  With his fevered head resting in her lap, she sits for hours, feeding Neal water from a plastic bottle one small sip at a time, undeterred by the liquid that spills onto her dress or onto his pillow when he fails to swallow and when he coughs.  Whenever that happens she simply dries his chin and his neck and doesn’t worry about her dress.

Before Neal’s elbow finally met its unintended target a few minutes ago, Elizabeth had a few close calls with Neal’s uncoordinated, flailing limbs.  Without as much as an annoyed sigh, she would collect the broken pieces of whatever she happened to carry and then she would sit by Neal’s side, still his hands and talk softly to him about home and the dog and about how much everyone misses him.

“I can restrain him,” Peter says flatly and lifts the towel to look at the bruise that is going to blossom in his wife’s face soon.

“No, you can’t.  Don’t be silly.  I’m fine.”  El shakes her head.  She would have been appalled by Peter’s suggestion two days ago, but now she knows Peter is near the end of his rope.  Maybe she is too.  Beyond tired, emotionally, because the only thing worse than bearing Neal’s stoic silence is hearing him scream in his nightmares.  Scream and sometimes cry and sometimes beg for mercy. 

They don’t talk about what they hear.  Elizabeth cries.  Enough for the both of them, because Peter hasn’t been able to let go like that yet.  He comforts her, with silent, strong embraces, the kind that he wishes he could comfort Neal with.

“El, I want you to get some sleep tonight,” Peter says.

“I can sleep next to Neal, hon.”

“No.”  Peter remains firm and adopts the Special Agent tone he rarely uses with his wife.  “I’m going to have a real meal delivered from the club house.  We’re going to eat at a real table.  And after that you will close the door to our bedroom, take a nice long soak in the tub, with a bottle of wine and scented candles—the whole shebang.  And then you’re going to sleep in our bed and not worry about my partner for a night.”

“What about Neal?”

“Ah!” He raises and admonishing finger.  “No worrying.  Starting now.”

She sighs heavily.

“Okay,” she relents.  “But only if you promise me you’ll take a dose of your own medicine tomorrow.”

“I promise.  Scout’s honor.”  He kisses her forehead. 

***

When Elizabeth wakes the next morning, it is still dark outside.  She stretches, extending her limbs in all directions on the king size mattress.  She gingerly touches her nose and cheekbone.  Neal got her good.  She is not looking forward to the image of herself in the mirror.  War wounds aside, she feels rested for the first time in days and a little hung over from the expensive bottle of champagne Peter served her in the tub the previous night.  She looks around then drinks from the glass of water Peter has left on her nightstand.  The clock radio next to the glass announces the ungodly hour of 5:03am. 

Sinking back into her pillow for a moment, she listens to the sounds of the dark house.  It is almost perfectly quiet.  There is the humming drone of the air conditioner unit.  Then there is a second layer of noise, fainter and further away.  A running faucet across the house, perhaps in the kitchen.  Peter may have left the water running when he finished the dishes or got himself a drink of water in the middle of the night.  Elizabeth sighs contently.  No sound coming from Neal.  That is a good thing.  It means he is resting.  Perhaps it even means that the fever broke.

She sits up in bed and scoots over to the edge until her feet touch the floor.  She should check on Peter.  Chances are he has passed out from sheer exhaustion in the least comfortable position, in a chair or on the floor of Neal’s bedroom. 

Elizabeth slips one of Peter’s T-shirts over the camisole and panties she is wearing.  She makes her way through the dark living room to the kitchen sink.  The taps are closed tightly.  Tiptoeing on to guest suite, she slowly opens the door.  The first thing she notices is the sound of the running shower that swells in volume the moment she cracks the door.  The second detail that draws her attention are the rumpled sheets on the unoccupied bed.

“Peter?”  She whispers and enters the room.  There is no doubt that the room is empty.  The door to the bathroom is ajar, casting a long, narrow band of light onto the teak floorboards.  Elizabeth heads across the room and inches the bathroom door open.  The image displayed inside is so full of raw tenderness and despair that her heart wants to overflow with a sudden surge of love for both of her men.

Still in his clothes, his back against the wall of the open shower stall, Peter sits with his legs spread.  Sitting between his knees, Neal is slumped against his chest, his head tipped back on Peter’s shoulder, his temple resting against Peter’s cheek.  His eyes are closed and he is breathing calmly.  The warm shower spray is raining down on them, pearling off of Neal’s bare chest and soaking into Peter’s clothes and into the towel Peter has draped over his consultant’s lap.

“Hi, honey,” Peter says with a tired, pitiful smile. 

“Hi,” she replies from her position in the doorframe.  She watches the water flatten the short hair against Peter’s forehead and run down the deep lines of worry and fatigue carved into his features.  “What are you doing?”  She asks softly and without judgment.

“I couldn’t get him to settle down,” he says and wraps his arms more tightly around Neal’s body, pulling him into his chest and passing a soothing hand up and down Neal’s stomach.  “He likes the water.  Been sleeping like a baby for hours.”

“Hours?”  Her eyes widen.  “How long have you been in here?” 

“Oh … since midnight … or so.”  Peter chuckles almost deliriously and checks his watch, its leather band soaked thoroughly.  “I’m glad they’re not charging us extra for the water bill.  And I think I may have developed webbed digits.”

“Oh, baby.”  Elizabeth clucks her tongue.  She squats down in front of the pair, just out of reach of the shower spray.  She takes her husband’s hand into hers, runs her fingertips over his pruned skin.  “I think I’m not quite ready to lose you to an amphibian life.  Do you think it’s time to move him back to bed?”

He nods and fumbles clumsily for the shower valve.  Elizabeth beats him to it and turns off the water.  For a few seconds they both hold their breaths, blinking at each other and at Neal, waiting for him to stir.  He doesn’t.  Peter carefully pitches him forward, putting space between his front and Neal’s back.  Neal’s head lolls onto his chest.

“I’ve got him.”  Elizabeth says and grabs Neal’s shoulders to keep him upright.  “Can you climb out?”

Peter nods unconvinced and grimaces as he extracts his stiff limbs from around Neal.  He pulls himself up by the shower rod and takes a moment to stretch his sore back.

“The things I do for that man,” he groans without true disgruntlement. 

“Can you do one more thing for him and help me get him to bed?”

“Of course,” Peter exhales and gathers all of his strength remaining at this hour.  He gets down on a knee and scoops the limp man into his arms.  He lifts him with a grunt and nods at Elizabeth to lead the way.  She hurries into the bedroom and turns on the bedside lamp at its lowest setting.  She spreads several towels over the bed and nods her okay at her dripping wet husband.  She supports the back of Neal’s head when Peter settles him down.

“Dry off, honey, I’ve got Neal.”  She tosses the waterlogged towel from Neal’s lap onto the floor and swathes him in towels, pressing down gently to soak up the water.

“I’ll be right back.”  She hears Peter say, her eyes never leaving the man under her hands.  Neal’s forehead wrinkles and a quiet moan escapes his lips when she makes contact with his tender flank.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie.  Don’t wake up please,” she soothes and moves on to dry his wet face and hair with slow and light passes of the soft terry.  Neal’s eyelids flutter, but then he relaxes with a deep breath. 

Elizabeth folds back the damp towels that cover him, discarding whichever are not trapped under his body.  Peter will have to help with those.  The bandages covering the infected wounds on Neal’s hip and thigh are thoroughly soaked and peeling away from the moist skin.  She throws them aside along with the towel that protects the modesty Neal no longer seems to care about.  She scans the naked body in front of her and the injuries she can’t get used to, no matter how often and how long she looks at them.

Elizabeth has never been in denial about the fact that Neal is physically attractive.  Her relationship with Peter is solid enough to tolerate the occasional offhanded comment on his partner’s winning looks.  At work, she rolls her eyes at her female coworkers’ snickering and their suggestively raised eyebrows whenever she shares the latest anecdote involving her husband and his fetching consultant.  The girls at work haven’t seen the Neal who sits at their breakfast table with his arm elbow-deep in a box of cereal, the Neal who makes any sexual thoughts about him almost impossible.  She doesn’t blame them.  It’s easy to reduce Neal to a pretty face and an immaculate body.

It’s easy until you are faced with what is left of Neal after he has been reduced to nothing but a soulless body for months.  A body worked to the point of collapse every day.  A body thrown into a fight ring to serve as a punching bag to entertain cruel spectators.  A body used for sexual gratification, by bored housewives, as long as it was pretty enough for them, and by everyone else after that.

A body that will be back to its perfect shape with time and care, but that will be nothing without the vibrant, lovable spirit that used to inhabit it.  Neal’s sex appeal has always been a more than the sum of his trim abs and his steel-blue eyes.  It was his charming smile and the smart mischief in his eyes and his confident swagger that pulled people in and made them forget and forgive his criminal history. 

Elizabeth sighs and finishes drying Neal’s hands and feet and, lastly, the soft nakedness between his thighs.  The girls at work will never hear about it.

“Everything okay?”  Peter’s voice at her back startles her.

“Yeah.”  She smiles tightly and hopes the light is too dim to reveal her blush.  “Can you help me get the towels out from under him?”

“Sure.”  He briefly rubs her back as he steps up the bed.  He lifts Neal’s shoulders, then his pelvis and finally his legs, allowing Elizabeth to pull the towels out from under the sleeping man.

“That was quite the Kodak moment,” Peter remarks. 

El stares at him, embarrassment creeping into her cheeks again.

“In the bathroom, I mean,” he elaborates.  “I wouldn’t live that down at the office.”

“I thought it was very—“ Elizabeth thinks for a moment.  “Very endearing.  I know those things don’t come naturally to you, Peter.  But I also know your comfort means the world to Neal, even if he doesn’t comprehend that at the moment.  Thank you for being so kind to him.  It must feel a little strange for you, I’m sure.” 

She pulls the sheet over Neal’s body and moves its edge aside to keep Neal’s privates covered while exposing the wounds on his flank.  Peter collects fresh dressings from the nightstand, tears open the packaging and then lowers himself onto a knee to tape them over the healing patches of skin.

“All done here.”  He says quietly and tugs the sheet over Neal.  He doesn’t look at her.  “And it felt good.  Holding him felt good.  You know?”

She wraps her arms around him.

“I couldn’t bear losing him, El,” he whispers into her a hair. 

“You’re a good man, Peter Burke.”

“Above all, I’m a tired man,” he sighs.

“You must be.”  Elizabeth pulls him a little closer.  “Why don’t you go crawl into bed?  I’ll stay here with Neal.  With any luck, he’ll sleep for a few more hours.”

“Hmm,” he grunts.  “I would rather crawl into bed with my lovely and smart wife.”

“Oh, yeah?”  She wiggles out of his tight hold and looks up at him. 

“I’ll be sure to introduce you one of these days.”  He smiles a lopsided, exhausted smile and kisses her lips before she can protest.

By their side Neal stirs with a soft moan.  He rolls onto his side, groping for a pillow to hug.

“I think you better lie down with him, honey.”  Peter reluctantly releases his embrace.

Elizabeth lets her eyes wander back and forth between her husband and the man growing increasingly restless on the bed.

“Bed’s big enough for all of us,” she shrugs.

 

Chapter 5 – Trust

 

Elizabeth doesn’t fall back asleep.  She shares the top sheet with Neal, who lies close to her with his head resting on her left shoulder.  He sleeps calmly while she gently and tirelessly rakes her fingers through his damp hair.  His body is still giving off warmth, but not the frighteningly high levels of heat it has been emitting for almost three days.

To her right, Peter has succumbed to the deep sleep of the truly exhausted.  Lying perfectly still, he has staked claim to a small portion of the king size bed.  He brought his pillow from the master bedroom and rests on top of the covers, not quite a part of the tender scene to his left, but not completely removed from it. 

Elizabeth wants to have him here and his quiet, reassuring presence.  She prays that the hours Neal spent this night in Peter’s protective arms helped to close the distance between the two men.  There is an ever-faithful core deep inside her that harbors the staunch belief that Neal can fully recover if only he can regain his trust in Peter. 

She wants this for Peter’s sake as much as Neal’s.  Peter may never admit as much, but she knows that his feelings for Neal have long surpassed those of curious fascination and professional responsibility.  This boy, whose complete history they may never learn, wormed his way into Peter’s heart long before the tracking anklet sealed their unusual partnership.  Perhaps even long before Peter locked him behind bars for the first time. 

Elizabeth has given up trying to define the relationship her husband has with his consultant.  She has stopped questioning Peter’s wisdom in forgiving Neal his repeated transgressions, despite Neal’s failure to show any remorse for his actions.  Maybe the old adage is true after all.  Maybe love really means never having to say you’re sorry.  Maybe a different woman might be shocked by this realization.

Jealousy is not an issue for Elizabeth.  What matters to her is that Peter is a happier man for having Neal close to him and that he is miserable when Neal gives him reason to worry.  These last few days haven been physically, mentally and emotionally taxing for Peter.  They are nothing compared to the ten months that preceded them, when Peter was unraveling at the seams, consumed by the obsessive search for any trace of his friend.

Elizabeth sighs contently as she turns her head left and right, looking at her two sleeping men.  She isn’t sure what time it is.  The sun is up, the first rays reaching over the privacy wall out back, heralding another sunny day in their tropical sanctuary.   With Neal’s fever broken, perhaps easier days are on the horizon.

As if reading her thoughts, Neal stirs.  He opens his eyes.  Elizabeth keeps stroking his head, giving him all the time he needs to blink at the bed sheet and at the window across the room.  Finally, his eyes find her warm smile.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Elizabeth whispers.

Blurry-eyed, he stares at her, as if struggling to remember who she is and why he is naked and sharing a bed with her.  Judging by his confused expression, Elizabeth can’t be sure he comes up with a satisfying answer to any of those questions and whatever else may be puzzling his foggy mind.

“Hi, Neal.”  She decides to start simply, reminding him who _he_ is. 

He opens his mouth.  Nothing but a voiceless moan escapes his dry lips.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie,” Elizabeth assures him.  She brings her right hand around to cup his cheek and brush her thumb across his lips. 

“Your throat is a little dry.”  She smiles.  He doesn’t need to know that he has been talking and screaming in fevered dreams.  “We’ll get you a drink of water in a minute.  Just lie still for a little while.  Let your head catch up.  Okay?”

He nods.

“Do you remember where you are?”  She asks without prodding.

His eyes flit around the room once more.  He nods hesitantly.  Elizabeth is not convinced.

“Good.  And you know who I am?”

He blinks at her and a small smile steals onto his tired face.

“’lizabeth,” he replies voicelessly and looks mighty proud to publicize such an important piece of knowledge.

“Yes, that’s right.”  El smiles and caresses his cheek.  His brow furrows when he studies her face.  His hand emerges from under the cover and hesitantly inches toward her.  She doesn’t flinch when his fingertips touch her bruised cheekbone. 

“You’re hurt?” He breathes.

“It’s not bad.  Stupid accident.”

It is obvious that Neal doesn’t buy her reply.  She shouldn’t try to con a con man. 

“Who?” He asks.  He looks ready to punch whoever has hurt her, the second he can muster the strength to lift his head off her shoulder.

Elizabeth just brushes her thumb over the dark purple bruise on his temple and leans in to kiss his forehead.

“Don’t worry, okay?”  She whispers.

The implication slowly dawns on him.

“Oh,” he says.  “’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” she replies softly.  “And that’s the last I want to hear of this.  Now, how about some juice for you?  Maybe some oatmeal?  You haven’t eaten in three days.  You’ve been very sick.”

“Three days?”  Neal sounds skeptical.

“Yes, sweetie.  You were confused, you ran away.  It took us a long time to find you in the jungle.  But we did and we brought you back here and took good care of you.  And now you’re better.  It’s alright if you don’t remember everything right now.”

“Rain?”  He asks, struggling to recall anything coherent from his recent memories.

Elizabeth examines his bewildered scowl and can’t be sure whether he remembers being drenched by the tropical monsoon or by the warm shower with Peter last night.  It doesn’t matter.

“Yes, it was raining hard.  Very good.”

The proud half-smile returns. 

Elizabeth passes her fingertips over his chapped lips.  She wiggles her shoulder out from under Neal’s head and pushes the pillow into place.  Neal’s eyes follow her every move as she extricates herself from under the sheet, trying neither to jar the hurt man at her left or her sleeping husband at her right.

Neal’s calm and contented demeanor changes to out-and-out hysteria the moment he realizes who is left to share the bed with him after Elizabeth has crawled off.  His panic-stricken eyes locked on Peter’s sleeping face, he scrambles to the edge of the bed until he runs out of mattress and plummets to the hardwood floor.  He yelps in agony when his barely healing left side hits the floor.

“Neal!”  Elizabeth hurries to his side as Neal rolls onto his back, gasping for air and clutching his hands to his ribs.  Kneeling down she catches her husband’s confused, sleepy gaze across the bed.

“What’s going on, hon?”  Peter props himself up on his elbows.  “Everything okay?”

“Um, we may need a hand over here.”  She shoots him an apologetic look then turns her attention back to Neal who blinks away tears of agony that have shot into his eyes.  “It’s okay, Neal.  Peter is going to help you.”

He seizes her arm and voicelessly pleads with her as he shakes his head.

Peter rounds the bed, hesitating for the fraction of a second, still not quite used to being confronted with his buck-naked consultant next to his wife first thing in the morning.  Elizabeth gives him a quick nod that’s equally encouraging and grateful.  She moves aside, Neal’s fist still clenched around her forearm.

“Shhh, it’s fine, Neal.  This is Peter.  Remember?”  Elizabeth strokes his hair and softens her worried face with a reassuring smile.  Next to her, Peter is already checking his wounds then palpates the bruising around his broken ribs.

“Can you breathe, Neal?”  Peter asks.  Elizabeth helplessly glances at her husband when Neal only keeps panting with his mouth and eyes wide open.  She watches Neal shudder with fear when Peter bends forward, slips his hand around the back of Neal’s neck and brings his ear within an inch of his mouth.  He closes his eyes and listens for several of Neal’s frightful breaths, holding his own all the while.

“He’s alright.  Just another panic attack.” Peter puts her at ease.  He takes Neal’s face in his hands.  “Hey.  Look at me, Neal!”

The frightened blue eyes are still locked with hers, and Elizabeth offers him a small nod.  It takes several more seconds before Neal’s gaze finally shifts to Peter’s face.

“Calm down, boy,” Peter urges.  “Nobody is going to hurt you, okay?”

Neal nods feebly.

“Good,” Peter acknowledges and continues to speak calmly.  “Now let go of Elizabeth’s arm.  You’re hurting her.”

Neal instantly complies.

“Sorry,” he wheezes.

“It’s okay, sweetie, I’m fine.” Elizabeth assures him with a tight smile.

Peter releases his grip on Neal’s face and gently brushes Neal’s hair back before resting his hand on his forehead, keeping it there while he patiently waits for the young man’s breathing to calm.  Elizabeth sits back on her heels, rubs her smarting forearm and takes in the weariness still evident in her husband’s sleep-scrunched face and the tender affection contained in the simple touch of his palm to his friend’s brow.

“His fever’s better,” Elizabeth says.  “I think we’re going to be okay, Peter.”

***

Two weeks later, _okay_ wouldn’t be Peter’s choice of word to describe their situation. 

Reclined on the poolside lounger, he looks up from the mystery novel that Elizabeth had bought him at the clubhouse souvenir store yesterday.  At the far end of the pool, Neal sits with his left leg hugged to his chest and his right foot dangling over the edge of the pool.  Neal watches his foot lazily stir the smooth surface of the water as he flexes and straightens his right knee in its elastic brace. 

These days, Elizabeth has taken over almost all of Neal’s care.  She washes his back when he takes a bath, keeps his healing skin moisturized and protected from the sun, gently massages his muscles when they involuntarily spasm after months of malnourishment and abuse.  She doesn’t mind.  It comes naturally to her.  Perhaps part of her even enjoys her new role.

Neal certainly likes their current arrangement.  Not having to rely on Peter to get around the house allows him to stay his distance.  Peter admits that Neal’s continued wariness towards him hurts.  He is angry with himself for harboring such selfish feelings, when he knows that distance is what Neal needs from him right now.  Neal relaxes when he is alone with Elizabeth.  He talks to her.  They don’t speak about the past or the future or about anything of significance, but they talk.  And sometimes Neal even laughs.  Peter should be happy about this—and he is—but he resents being left out.  He heaves a heavy sigh.

In the lounger by his side, Elizabeth looks up from her laptop, the fading bruise on her face discretely hidden under a layer of makeup.  She studies her husband, follows his line of sight across the backyard to their friend. 

“What are you thinking, Peter?” She asks. 

Peter snaps out of his thoughts, turns toward her with a distracted smile.

“Nothing, hon,” he mutters.  “I’m just … reading.”

“You haven’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.”  She folds down the screen and slides the laptop onto the side table.  “And I’m pretty sure they heard your sigh all the way to the gatehouse.  What’s on your mind?”

Peter looks at his wife’s vaguely amused face then gazes over at Neal, who continues to draw watery circles with his right foot, his hands now fiddling with the tracker around his left ankle.  His favorite shirt is unbuttoned and the sleeves are rolled up, offering glimpses of the healing injuries that still cover the gangly body. 

“I was thinking Neal looks better,” Peter finally says.  “He’s gained a couple of pounds.  He looks … healthier.  Don’t you think?”

“Yes, Peter, he does,” Elizabeth agrees dryly.  “Now tell me what’s really on your mind.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Peter replies.  “I’m just a little … restless.”

“Uh-huh, I see.” Elizabeth nods and raises her eyebrows.  “Peter Burke, why don’t you stop beating around the bush and tell me what’s wrong?”

He sighs even more deeply than earlier. 

“It’s just…” he trails off.  He really shouldn’t burden her with his unwarranted feelings of isolation or jealousy or whatever this silly knot in his stomach is.

“What, honey?”  She keeps prodding.

“It’s just that I didn’t think it would be me against the two of you,” he spits out hastily and feels his face flush as he rambles on.  “And I know that’s exactly what I set myself up for when I asked you to let me do the dirty work.  And I know it’s what’s best for Neal right now.  I shouldn’t act like the kid in the sandbox who nobody wants to play with.”

“Peter,” Elizabeth says quietly.

“I’m sorry, El,” he continues without looking at her.  “I’m being selfish here, I know, but I’m frustrated.”

“Peter,” Elizabeth calmly cuts in once more.  “I couldn’t disagree more.”

“What?” Peter stares at her.

“I disagree that it is selfish of you to feel isolated.  And I disagree that this is what’s best for Neal,” she states matter-of-factly. 

Peter can only assume his facial expression has safely entered comical territory.  Luckily, his wife takes this as a prompt to elaborate.

“Honey, we have to be realistic,” she explains.  “We’ve had him back for almost three weeks.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind looking after him and I don’t mind staying here for as long as it takes.  But sooner or later we will have to go back to New York and continue one version or another of our lives.  I’ve come to terms with the possibility that Neal may not be able to cope on his own for a long time to come, and I’m okay with that.  He’s welcome to live with us if that’s what we decide he needs.  But in order for this to work, I can’t be the only person he feels safe with.  You’ve seen him, he doesn’t let me out of his sight.  The man can’t sleep at night without me by his side.  Call me selfish, but at some point I would like to share a bed with my husband again.”

Elizabeth pauses and glances over at Neal who has picked up his head and is watching them suspiciously, perhaps trying to catch snippets of their conversation.  Elizabeth turns back to Peter and lowers her voice.

“Peter, I can’t be the security blanket he clings to.  At least not the only one.”

“I know, honey,” Peter agrees softly.  He feels a certain relief to find that Elizabeth shares his fears about the Neal’s future—their future.  Overwhelmingly, he feels guilty.  He takes her hand.  “I am incredibly sorry for burdening you with this, Elizabeth.  I know that’s not what you thought you signed up for when you married an FBI agent.”

“No, I didn’t.”  Elizabeth agrees.  “I didn’t sign up for this, I didn’t ask for this, and neither did you.  And I’m pretty sure that man over there didn’t ask for the hell he went through.  I know you feel guilty, Peter.  I can see it when you toss and turn at night and when you look at me and, most of all, when you look at Neal.  You’re torn up inside over what happened but that doesn’t help me or Neal right now.”

Peter remains quiet for a long time and studies her face.  He didn’t think her words sounded angry, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check.  There is no accusation in her face.  She looks tired, worried and desperate and all Peter wants is to make his strong and confident wife not feel that way.

“What do you need me to do, El?”  He asks.

“Make him trust you again, Peter,” she says softly.  “Don’t let him push you away.  He needs you, even if he doesn’t know it right now.”

“You’re right, honey.”  Peter exhales loudly.  He looks over at Neal who instantly averts his eyes, trying his best to act completely disinterested in them and their secretive conversation.

“Listen, El, let me take over for the rest of the day, maybe even a few days,” he requests.  “Neal will have to learn to cope without you.  He may not like it, but that never stopped this FBI agent before.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think it’s time to rewrite a few pages of the White Collar teambuilding handbook.”

He gets up from the lounger and bends down to kiss her.

“They don’t call you ‘special’ for no reason, Agent Burke,” she smiles.  “Be careful with him, okay?”

***

“Get up for a minute, Neal.”  Peter positions himself behind Neal, his feet apart, his shoulders squared.  It’s a posture he adopts when he means business.  He is certain that he would look more impressive in his suit and tie, but the shorts and t-shirt will have to do today.

In front of him, Neal tenses noticeably, his foot no longer splashing around the water.  His eyes dart over to Elizabeth.  She remains hidden behind her large-framed sunglasses and pretends not to notice as she sits with her ear buds in and her focus on her laptop screen. 

“Elizabeth needs some alone time this afternoon.  So it will just be us boys for a while,” Peter explains.

Neal blinks up at him now, squinting into the sun directly above Peter’s head. 

“Come on, buddy, get up.” 

He holds out his hand, but Neal refuses to take it when he climbs to his feet.  His movements have become steadier over the past two weeks, but they carry none of the fluid elegance he used to have.  On his feet, facing Peter, Neal remains tense.  He throws desperate glances over his shoulder at Elizabeth, futilely hoping for any reaction.  Peter gives him time, waits patiently for Neal to reach the conclusion that he’ll have to make do without his trusted brunette bodyguard for the time being.  The utterly helpless sound that escapes his throat falls somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.  Neal’s theatrics would have made Peter laugh ten months ago.

“Let’s give El a break this afternoon, Neal,” he says with what he intends to be a companionable smile.  “You know how women get, right?”

He gives Neal a light slap on the shoulder and feels him flinch.  Neal uneasily looks at the shoulder that was touched then up at Peter.  He nods mutely and without much conviction, as if to simply cover his bases in case Peter’s question wasn’t purely rhetorical.

“You look better,” Peter continues, his glance sweeping over the skin exposed under the open front of Neal’s shirt.  “Are you feeling a little better?”

There’s another tight-lipped nod and overt suspicion in the blue eyes.  Neal grabs his shirt with both fists and folds the front closed. 

“That’s still my shirt, you know?” Peter points out.  Neal tightens his grip on the cotton shirt and offers a scowl that is equally defiant and possessive.  Peter knows that look all too well.  He was the target of it only last night, when Neal had his arms wrapped around his sleeping wife and Peter had conceded defeat by not kissing her goodnight before trudging off to the deserted master bedroom.  He is willing part with his shirt, but he’ll have to insist on getting his wife back at some point.

“What do you say, wanna go for a swim?” Peter asks with a smile.  “It’s Olympic regulation depth so maybe you can show me how to do those cool turns and all.”  He studies Neal’s reaction carefully.  The suspicion returns, mixed with a good amount of anxiety as Neal turns his head to survey the pool.

“Not today,” Neal responds quietly.  His inflection leaves room for debate whether he means to make a statement or pose a question.

“Come on, man, you’ve been running laps around the pool ever since we got here,” Peter adds another light tap to Neal’s upper arm.  “The water is great.  You’re an excellent swimmer.  You know you want to.”

Neal mutely shakes his head.

“Okay, Neal,” Peter gives in with a frustrated sigh. “Tomorrow then.  Let’s shake on it.”

He extends his right hand.  There is a hint of triumph twitching in the corner of Neal’s mouth when he looks down at the open palm offered.  He squares his shoulders and Peter thinks he can feel a little of the old Caffrey self-assurance in the way Neal’s hand settles into his. 

It is a pity that it won’t last.

The seconds that follow have been rehearsed in Peter’s head to a tee.  His heart beats in his throat, but his execution is flawless.  His firm grip of Neal’s hand as he reaches for the back of his own waistband.  The familiar ratcheting sound of the handcuff as it closes around Neal’s right wrist.  The determined wrench that spins the baffled man around.  The desperate yelp when the second cuff snaps shut behind Neal’s back.  The spectacular splash of Neal’s bellyflop into the pool.

“This is insane,” Peter mumbles to himself, in the back of his mind counting the passing seconds as he watches his friend writhe and kick in the water.  He briefly looks up to find Elizabeth staring at the scene in open-mouthed shock.  He gives her a quick nod.  Then the count in his head reaches 30 and he dives into the pool.

Giving Neal’s thrashing legs a wide berth, Peter circles around to Neal’s back. Gasping and sputtering, Neal struggles to keep his nose and mouth above water.  Peter slides his hand around the Neal’s neck, lifting his chin to a safe breathing position. 

“I’ve got you, Caffrey.”  Peter wraps his other arm around Neal’s shoulders, pulling him against his chest.  “Relax.”

Neal doesn’t exactly relax but he suspends his struggles to cough up pool water and suck in heaving lungfuls of air. 

“I’ve got you,” Peter repeats.  “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Peter slowly pushes backward, leisurely gliding through the water with his friend’s rigid and motionless body in tow. 

“See, the water is great.  Nothing to be afraid of.”  He can feel Neal breathe more evenly and as Peter completes an easy lap around the pool he meets Elizabeth’s observant eyes with a hopeful smile.

“Let go of me!”

Peter would be certain that the faint request was a figment of his imagination if it wasn’t for the determined jolt in his arms that accompanies it.  Neal slips from his grip, his head briefly dipping below the surface before Peter can hook a hand under his chin to pull him back up. 

“Let…go…of…me!”  Neal spits out between gasps.

Peter doesn’t know what catches him more off guard, the fact that Neal has directly spoken to him for the first time in three weeks or the fact that the aggressive maneuver Neal launches a second later is not motivated by fear but by unbridled rage.

The back of Neal’s skull connects with Peter’s jaw and Peter tastes coppery blood seep between his teeth.  Neal grunts with strain when he yanks an elbow up to deliver an unexpectedly forceful blow to Peter’s solar plexus.  Stunned and inhaling a mouthful of water, Peter loses his grasp on Neal.  Using Peter as leverage, Neal kicks off with both feet to propel himself in the direction of the pool’s edge. 

Ten months ago, even with his hands tied behind his back, the short distance to safety would have been no challenge to an excellent swimmer like Neal.  Now he is floundering in the water, trying to make up for his physical weakness with stubborn determination.  Lacking strength and coordination to stay afloat Neal spends too much time below the surface for Peter’s liking.  With three quick, powerful strokes, Peter catches up with his friend.  Ignoring the anguished whine of protest from Neal, Peter seizes the back of his shirt and effortlessly drags him to the tiled edge of the pool.  He dives, takes a hold of Neal’s legs and gives him a boost until Neal’s upper body is hoisted safely onto dry land.  Within seconds Peter has climbed out of the pool to find Neal crawling and clambering away from him.  With a swift grab for the handcuff chain Peter puts an end to his pitiable effort.

“Let go!”  Neal demands breathlessly. He yanks on the cuffs and can’t contain the groan that follows.

“I’m trying!” Peter argues, his voice squeaky.  “Will you hold still already?”  He straddles Neal’s legs, immobilizing him while searching through the pockets of his own swim trunks for the key to the cuffs.  Peter’s slippery, wet fingers and Neal’s persistent battle with the handcuffs make inserting the key into the lock a frustrating undertaking.  Neal jerks his hands out of Peter’s grasp as soon as his wrists are released.

“Listen,” Peter speaks and takes his weight off of Neal’s legs. “I’m really sorry.  That was the dumbest idea I’ve had in … well, possibly ever.”

Snorting dismissively, Neal crawls a few inches, his face contorted with pain as he twists awkwardly to take pressure off his healing left side.  His mouth open and his face pressed into the pavers he breathes heavily.  Peter rests a hand on his leg.  The defiant twitch makes it clear that his sympathy isn’t wanted.

“I’m only trying to help, you know?”  He adds softly.  He looks down at Neal who regards him from under hooded, wet lashes.

“You know?” Peter repeats emphatically.  For the first time in weeks Neal doesn’t avert his gaze when Peter holds eye contact.

“Why couldn’t you be too late?”  Neal speaks so quietly that Peter is reading his lips rather than hearing his voice. 

“Neal?”

“Why did you have to find me, Peter?” Neal breathes harshly.  “Why couldn’t you fail, just this once?”

“Neal, don’t—“ Peter can barely speak.  The tightness in his chest wants to choke him.  He reaches for his friend again, but Neal scrambles away from him and pushes himself to his feet.

“Talk to me, Neal!”  Peter pleads.

Neal limps past him, his eyes focused straight ahead.  He shrugs out of Peter’s waterlogged shirt and tosses it behind him.  It lands as a soggy heap at Peter’s feet. 

“Neal!”  Peter calls after him.

“I don’t know who that is anymore,” Neal hoarsely shouts over his shoulder before he steps from the patio into his bedroom. 

Behind him, Peter and Elizabeth gape at the sliding glass door as it is shoved closed and locked.

 

Chapter 6 – Hope

 

“How much longer do you think he’ll keep this up?”  Elizabeth places the tray with Neal’s breakfast on the small folding table she positioned right outside the door to the guest suit three days ago.  She rearranges the small bouquet of fresh flowers on the tray and checks one more time that she hasn’t forgotten the cream for Neal’s coffee and that the multivitamins are impossible to miss.

“I don’t know,” Peter twist the doorknob to no avail, not that he is expecting the bedroom door to be suddenly unlocked.  “If there is even half of his old stubbornness left in Neal, then we might be in for a long standoff.”

“Maybe if it was just me, he would let me inside,” Elizabeth suggests, her bright blue eyes blinking up at her husband, hopeful that he will see her wisdom or at least her thorough unhappiness with the situation.

“I’m certain he would, hon,” Peter replies affectionately.  “But I truly believe that we have to let Neal take the first step.  When he’s ready.”

Elizabeth sighs and looks dejected.

“What if he needs something?” She makes a final plea.  “He’s still fragile, Peter.  And I don’t think he has properly slept in three days. His nightmares are back.  You’ve heard him at night.  And when he’s not tossing and turning he is milling around the dark house at two in the morning.”

“Let’s take that as a good sign, El,” Peter tries to allay her concerns.  “He’s been eating, right?  At least the trays of food disappear the second we’re not looking.  The shower is running a couple of times a day, so we can assume he’s taking care of himself.  And if he’s roaming the house at night, it probably means he is bored, which in Neal’s case is a sign that he’s feeling better.  Let’s face it, if he needs anything, he’ll take it on his nightly excursions.  My pens and writing pads have been disappearing.  And the pie you made yesterday.”

“Oh, you want to pin this on Neal now?”  Elizabeth raises her eyebrows.  “I know it was you.  You woke up with a raspberry stain on your t-shirt!”

“One slice!”  Peter confesses sullenly.  “That’s all I took.  I swear.  He took most of the pie and the last of the milk.”  His eyes sweep the living room.  “And my book from the couch, before I got a chance to find out who the murderer is.  And the deck of cards from the coffee table and your cooking magazine and the—“

Peter stares at the wall by the living area, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“He stole my flat-screen TV!”

As if on cue, the faint crackle of a TV set turning on sounds from behind Neal’s closed door, followed by the indistinct, energetic noises of a Spanish morning news program.

“He’s doing this on purpose!”  Peter hisses and points his finger at the door.  Elizabeth’s face lights up with a smile.  She briefly bobs onto her toes and plants a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re right.  He’s doing fine,” she finally agrees.  “Let’s let him move at his own pace.”

“Honey, the World Series is starting tonight!”

“Then you better make yourself comfortable outside this door and start groveling.”  She makes her way back to the kitchen to take the trays of their breakfast out to the patio.  “After you’ve had your coffee by the pool with me.”

***

Peter isn’t sure what rouses him from a deep sleep that night.  It is almost completely silent and nearly pitch-dark in the room.  He still hasn’t gotten used to this after living in the city for years.  To his left, Elizabeth is breathing quietly, sprawled across her half of the bed and spilling over into Peter’s territory, enjoying one more night of rest without her husband’s best friend clinging to her.

There is movement by the open bedroom door, a patch of white that recedes into the shadows of the living room as soon as Peter trains his eyes on it.  He props himself onto his elbows.

“Neal?” Peter asks softly into the darkness.

The white patch freezes in its spot.

“It’s alright, you can come in.”

The white patch hesitantly moves a few inches closer, morphing into the shape of an undershirt over a pair of boxers.  Neal stops in the doorframe.

“Is something wrong, Neal?  Are you okay?”  Peter can’t make out Neal’s face in the darkness but he can sense his conflict as Neal remains rooted to his spot, torn between his instinct to retreat and whatever impulse brought him to their bedroom at this hour.  Peter keeps still and doesn’t press him further.  He feels Elizabeth’s hand slowly slide over to touch him, letting him know that she’s awake and listening even if it may appear otherwise.

“I want to sleep,” Neal timidly states into the silence.

“Nightmares?”

The shoulder straps of the white undershirt rise and fall with a mute shrug. 

“Do you think you’ll have better luck sleeping in here?”  There is no trace of ridicule in Peter’s question.

Another shrug then what looks like a cautious nod. 

“Alright, come on in,” Peter sighs and lifts his hand to wave Neal over.  “I don’t think we need you haunting the house for another night.  I don’t want to wake up to a missing fridge.”

Neal takes a couple of reluctant steps into the room, before making a steady beeline for Elizabeth’s side of the bed.

“Ah-ah, no!” Peter whispers urgently and stops him mid-track.  “We’re not waking her.  She hasn’t slept well in weeks, Neal.”

Neal wavers where he stands.  His eyes ping pong between the bedroom door and Peter who gently pushes Elizabeth toward her edge of the large bed and scoots over to clear space for Neal on his right.  Peter makes a point of smoothing out the sheet and fluffing and turning the pillow.

“Here.  I even flipped it to the cool side.”  He pats the pillow in an invitation.

Neal looks at him for a long time.  And quietly leaves for the safety of the living room.

Crestfallen, Peter drops onto his pillow.  Elizabeth turns to him, presses her lips to his shoulder. 

“Be patient, Peter,” she whispers. 

“I’m trying.”  Peter closes his eyes and tunes into the sounds of the house, listening for any movement, for any hint at what his sleepless friend may be doing in the darkness.  He dozes off to nothing but silence.

Peter wakes an hour later when the mattress shifts under the weight of someone settling onto it to his right. Peter slowly turns his head.  With his back turned to Peter, Neal stretches out along the very edge of the mattress, leaving a foot-wide strip of no man’s land gaping between them.  Peter doesn’t take his eyes off of Neal until he can see his body rise and fall in the calm and steady rhythm of sleep.  Then he stretches the light down comforter as far as it will reach and drapes it over Neal.  Peter retakes his position in the center of the bed and lets his heavy lids drift shut with a speck of hope in his chest.

***

Peter opens his eyes to daylight filtering through the drawn shades.  He feels chilly.  Lying flat on his stomach, he cracks his eyes to look at the empty stretch of the bed where his wife slept.  The empty space isn’t as wide as it should be and Peter hopes Elizabeth didn’t flee the scene because he crowded her out of the comfortable bed.  Peter lifts his head, to survey the other side of the bed and discovers the reason he is left exposed to the cool temperature of the air-conditioned room.  The king size comforter is bunched into a large mound that takes up an entire half of the bed.  The only sign of life in the pile of down and light blue cotton is the thatch of chocolate brown hair peeking out at the pillow-end.

Peter smiles softly and shivers in his t-shirt and boxers. He rolls onto his back, rubs his bare arms. He considers his options for a moment. The bedroom door is closed, muffling any noises of what Elizabeth may be up to on the other side of it. Peter yawns. He doesn’t feel like exploring quite yet, not if there might be a few more minutes of sleep in the cards for him. Moving slowly, Peter reaches over to Neal’s side of the bed to grab a corner of the comforter and reclaim his fair share of it one square inch at a time. He stops when the comforter suddenly resists. 

At the head end a pair of sleepy blue eyes appears below the shock of mussed hair.  Peter doesn’t breathe as he braces for the bout of panic he has come to expect from Neal.  But Neal only blinks at him with a querulous frown.

“You know, Caffrey,” Peter smirks, “I let you sleep in here to keep you from stealing my stuff at night.”

Peter thinks a trace of mischief is seeping into Neal’s eyes and he wishes he could see the matching smile to be certain.  The hold on the comforter is released and Peter welcomes its warmth.  He sinks onto his back with a contented sigh and looks up at the ceiling, all too aware of his friend’s watchful eyes on him. 

Peter desperately wants to talk to him and doesn’t know how or where to start.  Neal came here, took the first step. Peter had been waiting for this for three days.  But he can’t push now, can’t maneuver Neal into another corner.

“I’m sorry about the pool,” he says to the ceiling.  “It wasn’t fair to blindside you like that.”

By his side, Neal rolls onto his back, mirroring Peter’s position, looking up at the same featureless ceiling. 

“You had every right to be angry with me,” Peter continues and wishes Neal would say something already.  Any comment that may have been forthcoming is precluded, when the bedroom door is opened.  Both men lift their heads in unison to look at Elizabeth who beams at them from the doorway.

“I thought I heard signs of life in here,” she chirps and makes for the window to pull the shades up.  Synchronous groans sound from the bed when the bright sunlight floods the room.  “Morning, boys.  Although it is almost noon.”

“Noon?” Peter squints.  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t have the heart to.  The two of you looked too cute.”  She heads over to Neal’s side of the bed, ruffles his hair affectionately while collecting Peter’s water glass from the nightstand.  “We missed you, sweetie.  Did you sleep okay?”  She doesn’t wait for a reaction but zooms around the bed to pick up the second glass.

“I’m an FBI agent.  I’m not cute,” Peter grumbles. 

“Well, I hope you’re both hungry because I’ve been up since six and I’ve had nothing better to do but to cook brunch for a small army.”  She is already on her way out the door.  “Last person at the table does the dishes.”

The two men drop back into their pillows with matching, heavy sighs, returning to staring at the ceiling for a few more moments of quiet.

“I’m gonna need my TV back,” Peter declares with a sideways glance at Neal.  “And my murder mystery book.”

“Don’t bother.“ Neal grins. “The vic faked her death.”

He rolls out of bed and lumbers in the direction of the brunch table.

***

“So, is this what we’ll be doing?”  Peter asks and helps Elizabeth strip the rumpled sheets off of Neal’s bed.

“Is this what we’ll be doing about what?”  Elizabeth throws the pillowcase onto the pile of dirty laundry she collected in the center of Neal’s bedroom.

“Are we going to pretend that everything is just fine?” Peter’s frustration rings in his voice.  “I mean three days ago Neal told me that he would rather have died than be saved by me and fifteen minutes ago I had an inane conversation with him about the finer points of scrambled eggs!”

“The two of you have had two-hour debates about coffee beans in the past.” Elizabeth shrugs.

“That’s not what I mean.”  There’s an edge to his tone that comes from a place of helplessness, not anger.

Elizabeth lets the pillow in her hand drop to the bed.

“I know, honey,” she placates him. “But Neal actually talked to you.  That is progress.”

“Yes,” Peter admits with a sigh.  He looks out onto the patio where Neal is sweeping the pool deck with a broom.  “I don’t want to make it sound like I am not happy about that.  I am.  You have no idea what it felt like to sit across the table from Neal and not see dread in his eyes when he looked at me.  Everything about this morning was ordinary and uneventful and absolutely perfect and for the first time in weeks I felt that we might have a chance in hell to come out of this with a semblance of our lives intact.”

Peter sweeps his eyes around the room, at the abducted flatscreen TV propped against the wall in the corner, at the pilfered magazines and books piling up on the nightstand. 

“I don’t know what went on in here in the past three days,” Peter continues.  “But we’re fooling ourselves to believe that he is coping with what happened to him.  He may not know who he is right now.  But I do.  I know that he will construct a brand new self that will adapt to whatever life we offer him.  He doesn’t quite know how yet but he’ll be piecing that persona together bit by bit, by trial and error if he has to.  And eventually he will succeed.   I’m afraid that we will fall for it, that time will lull us into believing that Neal survived this.”

“Honey—“ Elizabeth starts, but Peter has stepped up to the window now and turned his back to her, watching Neal’s every move, searching his face for any tells.

“I’m afraid if I don’t make him deal with what happened he never will.” Peter throws a hopeless look over his shoulder at his wife.

“He is dealing with it,” Elizabeth tells him.  “In his own way.”

“How can you be so certain?”

She smiles softly, walks over to the armchair in the corner and picks up one of the yellow, ruled notepads Peter has been missing. 

“I wasn’t snooping.” She passes the notepad to Peter.  “The door was open.  I came in here to air out the room while you guys were sleeping.”

Peter looks at the paper in his hands.  The top page is an ink pen drawing of palm tree by the pool.

“There are two more notepads just like this,” she explains.  “I think you should look at them.  You’ll understand what I’m trying to tell you.”  She nods her head in encouragement and leaves the room with the pile of laundry in her arms.

Peter looks outside again, finds Neal, who is on his knees and tending to the flowerbeds by the privacy wall.  He picks up the remaining two notepads from the chair then moves to the back of the room, out of Neal’s sightline should his friend glance this way.  Sitting down on the edge of Neal’s bed, Peter flips the first leaf of the writing pad.

The next few pages are filled with sketches of this bedroom, simple and rough at first, then improving in detail and skill with every turn of the page.  There are still lifes of the bedside lamp and of the soap dish in the bathroom.  Drawings of the room are followed by depictions of the bungalow and of the backyard with its plants and the pool.

The content of the sketches changes to something Peter doesn’t recognize immediately, until the crude, hurried lines coalesce to form barbed wire-topped walls, sleeping barracks and impenetrable walls of granite.  Then sketches of the prison yard give way to those of people.  Faceless throngs of men in rags and chains, crowding around steaming kettles of food and packed shoulder to shoulder on rows of mattresses. 

There are studies of raw-knuckled hands and wrists in shackles.  Neal’s hands, Peter is certain.  And of Neal’s body drawn with sharp lines and deep shadows, dressed and bare, curled up protectively and standing tall.  The next pages are filled with self-portraits.  Neal at his worst with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, bruised and bleeding.  And Neal at his best on the following page, healthy, bright-eyed and smiling.  He sports an unkempt beard and matted hair in the next drawing, is clean-shaven with his hair trimmed to a buzz cut in the one after that. 

Peter puts the first writing pad down, picks up the second.  He can’t identify the faces on those pages, but he recognizes the terror they instilled in the man who drew them.  Peter puts those sketches aside.  He isn’t quite ready for this glimpse into Neal’s nightmares.

To call the drawings on the final writing pad works in progress would be generous.  Sketches are begun and scratched out, lines drawn and redrawn until the tip of the pen broke through the paper.  Peter can see Neal’s frustration on these pages.  He can also see what Neal has been struggling to visualize and put on paper.  The jagged silhouette of the Manhattan skyline with its unmistakable landmarks, the bridges spanning the East river, the pond in Central Park.

“Peter?”

Peter starts.  Elizabeth stands in the open door to the living room. 

“Neal’s about to come back inside.”  She approaches the bed, puts a fresh set of sheets down. 

Peter hurries over to the armchair to return the sketches then comes to Elizabeth’s aid as she battles the duvet and the king-size comforter.

“Do you think he’s trying to, you know, process things?”  He asks.

“I think it’s a start and as long as he is trying we should let him move at his own pace.  And I think if Neal wants to talk to you about scrambled eggs you shouldn’t overanalyze it and assume he is being in denial.”

Peter heaves a deep breath and moves on to stuff a pillow into its slipcover. 

“I don’t think he remembers life back home,” he sighs.  “He used to be able to draw the city with his eyes closed.  And now … let’s just say I’ve seen more accurate renditions of the Empire State Building by a second grader who used dried pasta as a medium.”

“It’ll come back to him.  You know what they say about taking the boy out of New York and taking New York out of the boy.”

“What if it doesn’t come back?”

“Then we’ll reintroduce him,” El replies with her unwavering optimism.  “That could be fun too, don’t you think?  Making a brand new start of it, and all.”

Peter isn’t convinced.

“Fine,” he agrees regardless.  “But let’s not show him the shitty parts.  Or the really expensive stuff.”

Elizabeth shakes her head at him with a playfully scolding glare.

“Maybe I can convince him he likes deviled ham…”

He ducks to avoid the pillow flung at him.

 

Chapter 7 – Love

This is as close to heaven on Earth as it gets for Peter.  His favorite team is playing the World Series, his feet are propped on the coffee table, he is wearing his lucky Yankees cap and a chilled bottle of American beer is sweating in his fist.  It’s a close game.  He should be glued to the TV screen that has been returned to its designated spot in the living area.  But while he nurses the beer in his hand, his focus keeps drifting over to his left, where his best friend occupies the far end of the leather sofa. 

Neal is barefoot and dressed in cotton gym shorts and the ribbed undershirt that has become his uniform since Peter’s shirt has fallen out of favor.  To no one’s surprise, he shows little interest in the game.  He occasionally glances up at the screen, takes a sip from the bottle of beer that Elizabeth had been reluctant to give him despite Peter’s insistence that it was a vital part of the viewing experience.  For the most part he sits hunched over the yellow writing pad in his lap.  The tip of the pen in his hand is incessantly dancing over the paper, outlining and texturizing, adding detail and dimension to the objects and figures he sketches.  Now and again he stops to review his work, sometimes abandoning a half-finished drawing to turn the page and start over.

“We can get you some better paper.”  Peter cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Neal’s latest sketch. 

“This is fine,” Neal says without looking up.

“Maybe even some of those special crayon-looking thingies,” Peter continues. 

Neal raises his eyes at the TV screen, possibly to determine why America’s favorite pastime has suddenly lost its appeal to Peter.  He doesn’t come up with a satisfactory answer and picks up his sketch where he left off. 

“This is fine,” he repeats.

“What’cha drawing?”  Peter is undeterred. 

Neal puffs out a long and slightly irritated breath.  He lifts the writing pad, tilts it in Peter’s direction.  The pen drawing depicts the head of a Labrador dog, holding a chewed-up baseball between his drooling chops.

“That’s my boy Satchmo!”  Peter’s face warms with a wistful smile.  “Now _that’s_ cute.  You should show that to El when she gets back from the shopping.”

“Here.” Neal tears the page off the block and hands it to Peter.  “Keep it.”  He turns his attention back to his writing pad, intent on ignoring Peter’s curiosity for the time being. 

“Thank you,” Peter takes a closer look at the sketch and chuckles.  “The Babe Ruth signature is a nice touch.” 

There is no further reaction from Neal and for the next fifteen minutes Peter follows the game.  The broadcast pauses for commercials and Peter finishes his beer as he pushes himself to his feet.

“I’m going to grab a new bottle.  You want another one?”

Neal shakes his head then looks up at Peter with an inquisitive frown.

“Did I use to like beer?”

“No,” Peter grumbles.  “But it was worth a shot. “ He makes his way over to the fridge, pulls a beer for himself and a bottle of water for Neal.  He searches through the plastic storage containers of brunch leftovers, debating if any of them would satisfy his late afternoon snack craving. 

“Are you hungry for anything?”  Peter calls and continues to mine through the fridge contents.  He receives a grunt from the sitting area in reply.  He stops dead.  The last three weeks have acquainted Peter with the full tonal spectrum of pain in his friend’s voice and something in the dismissive sound coming from the couch makes the hair at the back of his neck bristle. 

“Neal?”  Peter tosses the open plastic container in his hand back on its shelf, slams the fridge door shut.  The rattle of the bottles inside the fridge is echoed by the sound of a beer bottle tipping over on the glass top of the coffee table, the table’s legs scraping on the tile floor.

Peter makes it to the sitting area a second later.  His face scrunched in agony, Neal has slipped from the couch and onto his knees and is clinging to the coffee table with white knuckles.  The spilled beer has spread over the tabletop and is dripping over its edge and onto the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Alarmed, Peter shoves the couch aside and drops to his knees by Neal’s side.  Breathing in short, rapid gasps, Neal glances over at him and pain has driven tears into his eyes.

“Can you breathe?” 

Neal nods.

“My back,” he groans. 

Peter settles a hand on Neal’s shoulder, slides his other hand under the hem of his undershirt and up his back.  His palm feels taut strands of muscle under scabbed and scarred skin.

“Your back is cramping,” he explains.  “This must hurt like crazy.”

“Ya think?”  Neal snaps breathlessly.

“Alright,” Peter retracts his hand, climbs to his feet. “Let’s get you on the couch.  You should lie down and try to relax.”  He grabs Neal by the arm, gently pulls him up until Neal yelps in pain.

“I got it,” Neal pants.  “Don’t touch.  Please.” 

Peter straightens the couch and grimaces in sympathy when Neal crawls onto the seat cushion, shifting and rolling, bending and straightening until he finds the least agonizing position. Lying awkwardly twisted on his front with his left knee drawn up, Neal presses his forehead into the cool leather and wills his breathing to calm. 

“Better?” Peter lightly pats his thigh.

“Don’t make me move again,” Neal whispers.  “Ever.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees.  “I’ll go see if we have some muscle relaxants for you.  Maybe some heat packs.” He heads for the master bedroom, picking up his cell phone to give Elizabeth and quick update.  She offers to come home immediately, but he insists that he has everything under control and she should enjoy her afternoon at the shopping center.  Peter searches their medical supplies, carefully reads the labels on the extensive collection of prescription bottles that Mozzie had assembled and shipped to the rental before their trip down here.  He picks one of the pill bottles and two of the chemical heat wraps and returns to the living room.

By the looks of Neal, his comfort level hasn’t improved.  Peter fetches a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter.  He unscrews the bottle and sets it on the coffee table within easy reach of Neal.  He shakes two pills out of the prescription container and places them by the bottle.

“Take those,” he requests softly but firmly.  “They’ll make it a lot better.  I promise.  You may get a little drowsy, but my guess is you weren’t planning on operating heavy machinery tonight.”

Peter doesn’t hover over him.  Armed with the roll of paper towels, he mops the spilled beer off the table and tiles.  From the corner of an eye he watches Neal prop himself onto an elbow to slip the pills between his lips and wash them down with a sip of water before gritting his teeth and shimmying back into his semi-prone position.

Peter stops by the kitchen to dispose of the dirty towels and to pick up the beer he abandoned earlier.  Back in the living room a quick glance at the scoreboard on the screen tells him that he hasn’t missed much.  He takes a long swig from the bottle and mentally congratulates himself on a new personal record:  dealing with Caffrey-inspired crisis in the span of an inning.  He looks down at Neal, who has closed his eyes and doesn’t dare to make a move.

“The meds are going to kick in in a few minutes,” Peter assures him.  He puts his beer down, picks up a heat wrap and tears the packaging open.  He folds the hem of Neal’s undershirt up and Neal flinches under his touch.  “Sorry.  I’m putting some heat on your back.  It’ll help with the pain.  When I was playing ball those things kept me going.  As a matter of fact, I’m convinced I single-handedly supported the entire chemical heat industry.”  He applies the heat-wrap to Neal’s lower back, gently smoothing it out before tugging Neal’s shirt back in place.

“Holding up?”

Neal nods.

“Do you mind if I hang around and watch the game?”

In lieu of a reply, Neal pushes himself a few inches toward the foot end of the sofa, shrinking further in on himself to clear a little more space for Peter to sit.  He sucks in a sharp breath when the movement jars his back.

“Thanks, buddy.  I appreciate it.”  Peter reclaims his beer and settles into his spot at the far end of the couch.  He tries to get comfortable in the small space, stretches his left arm along the backrest of the couch only to change his mind a second later and rest that hand on his thigh.  Finally he changes course one more time and lets his hand settle on Neal’s shoulder.  He waits for a flinch, a shudder, any reaction to indicate that his touch is unwelcome.  There is none.

***

Twenty minutes later, the Yankees are up by four runs and Peter feels the man under his palm relax.  He slides his hand over the round of Neal’s shoulder, gives his upper arm a light squeeze. 

“Pain easing up a bit?”

“Yeah.” Neal’s breathy reply is full of relief.  In a slow, controlled maneuver he rolls onto his right side, biting his lip in anticipation of a painful spasm.  When he is spared, he lets his head sink onto the sofa cushion with a sigh.

“Can I get you anything?” Peter asks.

Neal shakes his head then has a change of heart.

“A pillow maybe?”  He squints up at Peter.

“Sure,” Peter gets up to grab one of the pillows from the master bedroom and uses the opportunity to pull another beer from the fridge before Elizabeth has a chance to cut him off.  Back in the sitting area Neal regards him from bleary eyes that suggest that Neal’s sleep-deprived, weak constitution is no match for a dose of Mozzie’s medicine. 

Neal seizes the pillow but waits for Peter to squeeze back into his spot before propping it against Peter’s thigh and nestling into it.  Peter instantly regrets his failure to make a pit stop at the bathroom.  Neal looks to be settling in for the long haul.

“Comfy?”

“Hmm,” Neal mumbles into his pillow followed by something remotely sounding like “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  Peter give Neal’s shoulder a light pat and leaves his hand in place.  He slides a little lower into the couch cushion, props his feet on the table again and tries to get caught up on the progress of the game.  Neal starts fidgeting the very second that Peter feels he can finally relax.

“Something the matter?” Peter tries his best not to sound impatient. 

Neal’s arm reaches for his lower back and pulls at his undershirt.

“Can you get that heat thing off of me?” There is a slightly distressed edge to his tone. 

“Hold on, I got it.”  Peter brushes Neal’s hand aside, hitches his shirt up and gently peels the heat wrap away from his back as Neal inhales sharply.  The skin underneath is red and hot, the healing welts there looking tender and irritated.  Peter clicks his tongue.

“Sorry about that,” Peter tosses the heat wrap aside touches his fingers to the heated skin.  Neal only curls onto his side, makes himself comfortable on the pillow once again.  He wiggles a little closer to Peter and Peter assumes that means his over-enthusiastic endorsement of the unpleasant heat wrap is already forgiven and forgotten.  Peter sits back, briefly lifts his baseball cap to wipe his brow with the back of his hand.  He picks up his beer and tracks down the game score on the screen. 

Neal watches him from the corner of an eye.

“Who’s winning?”  He asks without looking at the TV.

“The Yankees.”

“They’re the good guys, right?”  Neal slurs his speech a little.

“Yeah, that’s right.”  Peter offers him a small, crooked smile.

“Good.” Neal nods with a grave frown.

“The guy on bat is their best hitter,” Peter explains and watches Neal lift his eyes up at the screen. “He’s had a great season.”

“What’s his secret?” Neal mumbles.

In all the conversations Peter has had with Neal in his head over the past few days, the topic of baseball couldn’t have been a more remote possibility.  Neal isn’t like other guys Peter knows.  With Neal there is no safe, neutral ground to be found in sports statistics.  With Neal, Peter can’t smooth the waters with football chitchat by the water cooler.  Neal doesn’t work that way. 

But with his head nearly resting in Peter’s lap now, Neal listens to him.  His tired eyes focused on the screen he hangs on every word of Peter’s commentary, nodding his understanding on occasion, asking a simple question now and again, smiling softly when Peter gets carried away over a scored run.  Peter doesn’t stop rambling until the seventh inning stretch.  On his pillow, Neal has his eyes closed.

Peter sweeps his gaze over Neal’s body, passes his hand over his shoulder blade that is still too angular after three weeks of care.  Discolored welts and scars on Neal’s back are exposed below his ridden up shirt.  They look better now, nothing like in those first hours when Peter scrubbed dirt and blood from his friend’s weeping wounds.  Peter touches his fingertips to Neal’s back, traces the long, scabbed edge of a mark.

“Do you remember how you got this?”  He asks quietly, unsure if Neal is even awake to hear him. 

Neal cracks his eyes.

“Which one?” 

Peter’s fingers tenderly skim over Neal’s back.

“Any of them,” he speaks past the lump in his throat.  “Do you remember them doing this to you?”

Neal takes a deep breath and nods into his pillow.

“Yeah, I remember,” he says nearly voicelessly.  “Every single one.”

“God, Neal.”  Peter swallows, closes his eyes for a moment.  His fist clamps around a handful of Neal’s shirt because he needs to hold on to something.

“I had to remember.  It was all that mattered, you know,” Neal continues.  “Not giving them another reason to hurt you.”  His voice is faint, his diction slightly off.  Peter wonders how fiercely the drugs are chipping away at Neal’s defenses.  He debates stopping Neal, asking him to go to sleep.  Something about listening to Neal’s narcotized confessions feels like a breach of trust, a trust that Peter is aching to rebuild on whatever shattered foundations remain.  But he can’t help listening now any more than he could help turning page after page of Neal’s drawings earlier.

“It wasn’t bad at first,” Neal starts.  “I worked at the Superintendent’s house.  Painted a few rooms, sanded the floors, split wood for the stove.  I slept locked in a small room in his basement.”  Neal clears his throat, closes his eyes, furrows his brow as he struggles with his thoughts.  “Or in his wife’s bedroom when he was too drunk to care or just drunk enough to want to watch.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”  Neal nods eagerly as if to convince himself of his own words.  He continues to speak slowly, sluggishly stringing sentences together. “And then I thought I could get away.  I didn’t get far.  He checked his trunk before leaving the compound.  His wife begged him for leniency.  So they took my mattress and blankets.  I didn’t eat for five days.  I convinced them I had learned my lesson.  The only lesson I had learned was that I needed a better plan for escape.”

“Two weeks later they caught up with me in the desert.  And there was no mercy this time.  The Superintendent reserved the right to beat me himself.  I should have felt honored.”  Neal emits a short, caustic chuckle and falls quiet for a moment.  “They stripped me naked, tied me to a post outside his wife’s bedroom window until the next morning.  That was in January.”  A shiver runs through Neal as if his body still holds the memory of that freezing night. 

“In the morning they took me to the mines.”

With his fist buried in his pillow Neal calms his quickened breath.  He closes his eyes and remains silent long enough that Peter thinks he may have dozed off.  But then Neal’s eyelids flutter and he forces his eyes open with a determined inhalation.

“I remember the first thing I noticed was the quiet,” he begins to speak again.  “There was this large cavernous space filled with hundreds of men, but void of any human sound.  Like there were machines mining the rock.  Silence is the first thing the guards teach you,” he trails off then collects himself again.

“We worked sixteen hour shifts.  They’d put you to work with a pickaxe or a hammer for a few days until your hands bled so much that you couldn’t hold your tools any more.  Then they’d switch you to hauling duty.  And that was good, at first, because you got to see daylight when loading the trucks.  But then the skin on your shoulders would be gone and carrying the baskets would be excruciating and you would beg the guards to put you back on mining duty.  And they did, after making an example of you with a leather crop because you had the audacity to speak to them.”

“So next time you didn’t beg.  You did the job you were assigned until your body gave out and then you hoped and prayed that they wouldn’t break any bones when they kicked and prodded you to get up.  And if you had the sense to stay quiet through that and if you were really lucky that day they’d drag you back to the barracks and let you rest through the remainder of your shift.”

“After a while every thought you have, every decision you make is governed by the single overwhelming desire to minimize the amount of pain that will result from your actions.  Some days you embrace punishment because it leaves you with the certainty that you won’t make that same mistake again and the pain you incur now will save you potentially worse in the future.  And some days you will do anything to avoid punishment because you simply can’t take anymore.   _Anything._   You let them humiliate you, let them screw you. Because what they do to your pride and your self-worth doesn’t leave bleeding wounds and because you can still do your job the next day when they’ve fucked you raw.”

Neal’s dry and hard voice falls silent for a moment.  He blinks, glances up at the TV.

“I think the good guys won,” he says.

“What?”  From far away, through the sound of rushing water in his ears, Peter hears cheering.  He snaps out of his petrified state, fumbles clumsily for the remote.  The buttons don’t cooperate with his trembling fingers when he tries to shut that damn game off.  By his side Neal props himself onto his elbow with a small grunt of discomfort.  He reaches for the bottle of water on the coffee table.  It shakes when he tips it against his lips.  Peter tosses the remote aside, supports Neal’s bottle while he drinks then returns it to the coffee table when he has had enough.

“Thanks.”  Neal drops to his pillow, rolls a little further onto his back to look up at Peter.  “You’re crying?”

Peter doesn’t know why the surprise in his friend’s voice triggers a chuckle.

“Yeah,” he nods as a fresh swell of tears brims over and runs down his cheeks.  “Of course, I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal frowns, still looking confused more than anything else.  With a deep breath he nestles deeper into his pillow, lets his eyes drift shut.

Peter sits in the silent room, listens to the sound of his racing heart and of Neal’s quiet breathing. 

“I tried so hard to find you,” he says when he finds the courage to.  “But you were gone.  There was no trace of you.  Hughes, even Diana and Jones, were convinced you had run, because the only person who could disappear like that was you.  But I didn’t’ believe it.  You wouldn’t have left like that.  Not without saying goodbye to Mozzie or Elizabeth.”

“And after a while, after a few months, I wanted to believe them.  I hoped you had run because the alternative would have been worse,” he continues.  “I just didn’t know how much worse it could be.”

“I remembered,” Neal says with a frown.

“What?”

“I remembered someone was looking for me,” Neal explains, hesitantly, as if still piecing his thoughts together.  “I didn’t know who or why, but remembering seemed important.  And by the end that terrified me.  Because nothing good could be that important.”

“When we came, did you recognize us?”  Peter asks.

“I knew it was you.”  He pauses, furrows his brow again.  “I mean, I didn’t know who you were but I knew you were the man who was looking for me.”

“That’s me, the man looking for Neal Caffrey,” Peter mutters and can’t help thinking that one day this will be as good an epitaph as any for him. 

“I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you, Neal.” His throaty voice threatens to break.  “If I had been too late.”

“Maybe you were,” Neal says quietly.

“No I wasn’t,” Peter replies adamantly from between clenched teeth. He trenches his fingers into Neal’s hair, closes his fist around a handful of it.  His touch is firm enough that somewhere in the back of his head a voice cautions him not to hurt Neal.  But Neal doesn’t pull away and Peter needs to hold onto him right now.

“The man you were looking for doesn’t exist anymore, Peter.”

“Yes, he does.  He is right here.”  Neal winces when Peter’s fist in his hair makes his point a little too vigorously.  Peter eases up on his grip.

 “You don’t understand,” Neal sighs, tired rather than frustrated.  “What I did in there—“

“You survived, that’s what you did, Neal.”

Neal shakes his head.

“I stole food.”

“You were starving.”

“I stole from people who needed it more.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“I killed someone.”

Peter pauses and needs to convince himself that he heard correctly. 

“Friday nights were special,” Neal continues in a soft, plain manner.  “We didn’t have to work the full shift because the guards always had a barbecue on Fridays.  We could smell it all the way to the barracks.  They drank and they gambled.  After dark they would rope off an area in the yard.  And they would make us fight.  No weapons.  No rules.  The winner would get to eat as much as he wanted.  The loser wouldn’t eat until Monday.  I wasn’t picked often.  There were bigger and stronger guys.  When I was chosen, I learned to fold fast.  We wouldn’t beat a guy once he was down.  It was an unspoken pact that we adhered to unless we were given no choice.”

“That Friday one of the guards picked me for the final fight of the night.  I had been working in his section all week and things hadn’t gone well.  Some of the scaffolding framework had collapsed, trapping me underneath.  I wasn’t seriously hurt, but he missed his lunch break that day because he spent it pulling splinters out of my side.”

Perhaps unconsciously Neal’s hand settles over his left ribcage. 

“I guess that ticked him off. He must have given the other guy some pointers because he knew exactly where I hurt. He kept pounding my side and it hurt so much … and I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped. I’m not sure how, but I ended up on top of him. I hit him. And I couldn’t stop. It took three guards to drag me away from him. They took me over to the water tank, dunked me until I stopped struggling.” 

“He was a young kid, younger than me.  I don’t know his real name.  They called him Canelo.  He died later that night.” Neal’s voice remains flat and eerily uninflected, but his body is trembling now.  “And maybe I did too.”

“No,” Peter shakes his head and finds himself hardly capable of breathing.  “You lived through unthinkable cruelty.  You did what you had to do to survive and no jury in the world would condemn you for what you were driven to do.  You may think they have broken you, Neal, but they haven’t.  They never could have.”

“I’m tired,” Neal says and curls in on himself to still his shaking frame.

Peter buries his hand in Neal’s hair again. 

“I know you don’t want to hear it and you can’t see it now, Neal,” he sighs.  “But _I_ know.  _I know you._   I’m asking you to bear with me and trust me until you can believe it too.  Will you do that for me?”

Neal only turns his face further into the pillow.

“Will you promise me to try?”  Peter pleads.

Neal’s small nod under his hand is almost imperceptible, but it’s the best Peter could have hoped for.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers.  He passes his hand over Neal’s shoulder and up and down his back before resting it at the nape of his neck, the feather-light touch of the side of his thumb stroking the soft skin there.  Peter sits quietly, watching the tension leave Neal’s shoulders as his trembling slowly eases.  “Comfortable?” 

Without opening his eyes Neal shakes his head slightly.  He tugs on the pillow under his head, pulling it down to his chest while inching up until his head comes to rest on Peter’s thigh.  He settles down again.

“Peter?” He asks softly.

“Hmm.”

“Will you tell me about New York?”

“Of course.  What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Peter takes a deep breath.

“Well, I think you will really love the parks,” Peter starts.  He props a foot on the coffee table and slides deeper into the cushions to get comfortable with the new arrangement.  With his fingers gently raking through Neal’s hair, he tells him about the city’s neighborhoods and the museums, the food trucks and the taxicabs.  Peter doesn’t quite know when exactly his friend drifts off to sleep or whether the silent tears soaking into his pants start flowing before or after that happens.

***

When Elizabeth returns from the store an hour later, she walks up behind Peter and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“What happened here?” She asks and softly presses her cheek against his. 

Peter doesn’t even know where to start.

“Hi, hon,” he says and nods at the Neal, who is sleeping in his lap with his mouth slightly open and a fist hanging on to Peter’s pants.  “I think I’m just going to sit here a while longer if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s okay.”  She ruffles his hair.

Elizabeth slips out of her heels and tiptoes into the bedroom.  She returns shortly and pulls Neal’s undershirt into place before draping a light blanket over him.  She takes a long look at her husband who looks red-eyed and drained.  She touches her hand to his face and he leans into her tenderness.

“El, I have to do whatever it takes to make things okay for him.  No matter how long it takes or at what cost.”

She only smiles at him fondly and leans in to kiss his forehead.

“I love you, Peter.”  She rubs her lipstick away with her thumb.  “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Peter turns on the TV with the sound on mute.  With his eyes half closed he follows a nature documentary on the screen.  The sounds of Elizabeth cooking in the kitchen area behind him register only remotely.  In his head, Neal’s heartbreaking account replays on an endless loop.

When Elizabeth calls him to the table, Neal is still fast asleep.  Peter carefully slips out from underneath his head.  He lifts the blanket away then slides his hands under the sleeping man to gather him up off the couch.  Neal stirs and wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders without waking.  On stiff legs Peter makes his way into the master bedroom, where Elizabeth is already folding the cover back.  As she closes the blinds to dim the room, Peter gently lowers Neal onto their bed.

***

Peter wakes to the same sensation he has woken to for the past three nights:  Neal’s thin, hard body pressed tightly against his side, clammy skin sticking to his, his head twitching slightly where it rests on Peter’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Peter whispers and presses a hand to Neal’s bare back.  Neal wakes with a gasp.  There is a brief moment of alarm before Neal relaxes and sinks back onto Peter’s shoulder.

“Sorry, was I talking again?” He croaks as he rolls onto his back and glances over to his left where Elizabeth is sleeping.

“Bad dream?”

“Actually, no.”  Neal furrows his brow.  “This was a good one.  I think I stole something.”

“Ah,” Peter chuckles.  “So you’re having _my_ nightmares now.  Thanks.”

“I really made your life complicated back home, didn’t I?”

Peter shrugs and wonders if Neal even realizes that he called it home for the first time.

“Let’s just say it was never boring with you.”

With Neal’s head resting on Peter’s upper arm, they lie quietly for a few breaths.

“I’m starting to remember things,” Neal says to the dark ceiling above.

“That’s good,” Peter smiles. “I knew you would.”

“I remember that it wasn’t like this.”  Neal nudges Peter’s shoulder and it’s hard to miss the trace of sadness in his voice.

“Not exactly, no.”

“I know it can’t be like this when we go back,” Neal adds quietly and rolls over again, pressing his front against Peter’s side and nestling his forehead against Peter’s jaw.   Peter folds his arm around him, passes a hand up and down his back.Neal’s closeness no longer feels foreign to him.

“No,” he admits regretfully.  “Probably not.  Are you afraid of that?”

Neal shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it now.  We’ll stay here until you’re ready to go,” Peter says.

He feels Neal’s calm breath against his collar, feels the healing wounds on Neal’s back that have become all too familiar in the past month.  Mostly, he feels overwhelmed by the surge of love for the man who has entrusted himself to his arms. 

Over Neal’s hair he sees Elizabeth pick up her head.  His small nod assures her that everything is fine.  He watches her move up behind Neal’s back, adjust the comforter and rest her hand on his hip.  Between them Neal takes a deep breath.

“Give me one more day like this,” Neal whispers.  “One more day.  And then I’m ready.”

 

THE END

 

 

 


End file.
